


Poison.

by a_hispida



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon Colosseum & XD
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, So please read the notes at the beginning of the work., Villain Protagonist, Whump, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_hispida/pseuds/a_hispida
Summary: Wes was a cursed child.A dark, gritty Pokémon Colosseum AU, where Wes never left Snagem, the region was never saved from Cipher's first onslaught, and the desert winds are howling. This is a story about the making of monsters.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue: A ghost story.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mature work. Graphic themes such as suicide, child abuse, and violence ahead. Please read at your own risk.

"This is a story that my mother told me, and that her mother told her, and so on and so on...are you listening, Wes?

"They say that corpses lost to the desert cannot rot. Instead, they shrivel and wither and turn into dust. The sun dries the tears from their eyes; the sand leeches the blood from their bones. Their skin turns black, their eyes sink into their skulls, and their arms and legs curl up and become as fragile as desert glass. My grandfather told me he found one of these bodies, once, that the lips had shriveled up and pulled over its teeth, and that it smiled at him with an ugly, bony grin.

"Ah - sorry, that's a bit scary. But you're brave, so you can handle it, can't you? 

"The people who love you will bury you with flower seeds when you die - a sacred rite that we have practiced since the sands washed away all our graves. A bag is sewn into the mouth, and a seed is placed in every open wound. There, they will quietly take root, intermingling with your soul. When the scarce rains wash over our lands, you will be freed from the earth along with their rainbow blooms - free to fly, beyond the clouds, to where the great bird of the rains and the great bird of the sun will greet you. But what fate awaits those who do not leave behind someone to perform their rites?

"Such people will never be able to escape. Their souls will be trapped, forever, in the barren wastes. They will lose their bodies to the empty desert. Baked by the sun and shredded by the coarse, cold sands, they live in unending torment. They cry to be laid to rest with hoarse, wailing voices. And so they search the desert, raking the sands again and again with hands turned into claws, hoping to find their bodies, which have been lost to the shifting dunes. They search and search and search and search, until they no longer remember what it was they were looking for...

"That is what comprises a sandstorm: a hundred, thousand wailing ghosts, who only know now that they must rake and scratch and claw, wail and cry and howl, who will dig through rock and steel and skin and bone, leaving nothing but sand in their wake.

"So don't ever go running out into a sandstorm, lest you find yourself joining it…"


	2. Biting the hand that feeds you.

The first time Wes ever saw the sky - the whole sky, stretching from horizon to horizon, pole to pole, not filtered through black canyon walls on either side reducing it to a brilliant sliver of blue - had been when he was covered in bruises and his own dried blood.

It had been with Gonzap's rugged, calloused hand squeezing the back of his ten-year-old neck, his teeth bared in a wide, ne'er-do-well grin, scar-tattered chest glinting in the sun while his red Snagem vest and brown, styled mustache flapped in the wind. It had been with the rest of Snagem all trailing behind them, bald-headed and uniformly dressed in bright red and black cargo pants, making crude jokes and eyeing Wes like they were about to tear him limb from limb, like his broken body hadn't been enough catharsis for them, like they were just waiting for him to break. It had been nauseous and dizzy from the rattling steel elevator that had taken them out of the Under and into the desert, a leftover from Orre's gold rush, which had rusted enough that its integrity was suspect, that it whined and screeched from sand caught where it shouldn't be, that it was loose on its suspension and one unlucky break away from plummeting into the deep black recesses of the earth.

And even so...

He'd never seen anything so beautiful as the dizzying, dazzling blue that stretched in every direction, which ended only where it was met by gold, glittering sand.

* * *

"Hey, you bastards - listen up!"

Gonzap shouted at the team loud enough to drown out all the incidental chatter. Once he was confident he'd gotten everyone's attention, he shoved Wes forward, the little brat only ten or eleven years old stumbling over his own stick-thin legs, bruising himself against the coffee table.

He didn't make a sound. Not a word, as he straightened up to face down the leers of team Snagem, who already knew exactly who he was. Snagem, who were already broadcasting with their frigid stares how unhappy they were with his recruitment. There was little he could do but glare back.

Gonzap continued, pretending not to notice. It was obvious he did, from the half-hidden smirk he wore as he watched - because he was fascinated with Wes for some reason, found him funny or something, and it was only by his goodwill that Wes had not been left to rot in the dark underbelly of the earth.

"From now on, this kid is one of us. Introduce yourself."

"...Wes," he said. His curt answer earned him a cuff on the head. 

"Properly. No one ever taught you how?" Gonzap grinned like it was funny. Hilarious.

"No."

Another cuff. It hurt, it stung, but he'd been beaten before and he knew better than to cry out in pain. He had no allies here.

"It's no, _sir,"_ Gonzap said. "Or no, _boss._ Got it?"

Wes's fists clenched at his sides.

"...Yes, boss."

Gonzap beamed at his obedience, affectionately ruffling his hair, brushing up against tender bruises Snagem had left there only two nights prior.

"See, you can do it if you try." He turned back to the rest of the team, hand still resting on Wes's head like he was a pet. "Now, anyone here have any questions for our new member?"

"Me, I've got one," one of the grunts snickered. Wes narrowed his eyes - he remembered this one. Niver, he was called. Responsible for nearly wrenching Wes's arm out of its socket as they interrogated him about the eevees he'd stolen. Wes had bitten his wrist just above the black leather glove the moment it'd come close enough, and where his teeth had drawn blood now sported a white bandage. 

"Wessy-kins," Niver said in a cutesy voice, betrayed by the animosity in his glare as one hand rubbed the gauze. "When's your bedtime? Do you need a little safety blanket to go to sleep at night?"

A round of laughter followed. Wes glanced up at Gonzap, who was laughing along with the rest of the team. Words were only words, he reminded himself. Even if they smarted white-hot, there was nothing he could do unless it was with Gonzap's permission - there were a million ways to die in Orre, if you had no one watching over you.

His boss only motioned for Wes to answer. C'mon. Hurry up. Don't keep us waiting...

Wes felt his lip curl, but he bit out the answer. "No."

What sort of comeback were they expecting from a ten-year-old? Regardless, the laughter grew louder, because a child was expected to bat with the big leagues, and there was something tragically funny about that.

"My turn!" This time, a grunt Wes didn't recognize - a high nose and pale skin. An outlander, maybe. Another shit-eating grin. "Hey, Wessy-boo, do you have a permission slip from your mommy that says you're allowed to do grownup things like this?"

His mother was dead. By now, her body had probably been thrown into some empty cave or mining shaft, tossed ignobly down the hatch with the sewage water, and the shitty steel bunker they'd lived in rented out to some new empty-eyed, hollow-cheeked tenant. He'd never known his father.

"No."

Another round of laughter. 

"Hey, boss, are you sure he ain't retarded?" one of the team members jeered. Gonzap chuckled and shook his head.

"Next question."

A third grunt volunteered. This one, Wes had seen hanging around the edge of the pack. Skin stretched too-taut over his skull, his features dried-out and creased like paper. "Does that cut on your face hurt, Weskertino? Need me to come kiss it all better?"

One long, deep gash had been drawn across his nose, one cheek to the other, with Gonzap's switchblade. Even now, it and a dozen other ugly welts and bruises were held shut by white bandages. Every twitch of his eyes, every movement of his arms, every step he took was accompanied by a screaming pain. The doctor had recommended several days' rest. Wes had been given one.

"No."

His own voice was drowned out by the merriment at his expense, which continued on regardless of his participation in it. The only reason he kept answering was because Gonzap's eyes were still on him. If he failed to answer, the _boss_ would know.

"Hey," said Agrev, who had been on duty the night Wes had snuck into their warehouse. He wore two round black shades, mirrored lenses, so Wes could not see the malice from within his gaze, could only feel it emanating from his presence. Peeking out from under the shades was a big black bruise, evidence he'd been reprimanded for his failure to keep the merchandise secure. Every word he spoke dripped with resentment.

"Shithead. You remember those eevees you stole from us?"

The question quieted the room. 

"Yes," Wes answered.

Snagem had ganked two eevees off a caravan of conservationist scientists. Their combined street value was more than Wes could expect to make back in his entire life. A sky-high figure. Priceless. 

"We~ell," Agrev continued, stretching his legs out. "I hear you evolved them into an umbreon and an espeon. Now, a little kid like you can't handle goods like that. You know that; _we_ know that. So how's about you let me take them off your hands, and - "

Before he could finish, Gonzap slammed his fist into the table, sending beer bottles crashing to the ground and shutting everyone up. He was livid beneath his eternally furrowed brow, his snarling visage. He towered above everyone in the room.

Stiff with fear, no one dared to say a word. Slowly, Gonzap rose to his full height, casting a shadow across the team, folding his arms over the big white x-scar on his chest.

"Those 'eons," he said, coldly, "only evolved because little baby Wes here is a better thief than all you lot combined. Where you shitholes couldn't even keep track of them for the five days it took to move them to auction, Wes kept them hidden from every last one of you for three and a half months. You wonder why you only get to use bottom-tier goods? It's because I'd take this ten-year-old brat over any three of you lazy lot any day of the week. Those 'eons belong to Wes. Do I make myself clear?"

No answer, so this time he shouted it.

"Do I make myself _clear!"_

"Yes, boss!" was the answer, in unison, accompanied by a dozen dirty glares in Wes's direction.

Wes had been biting his lip this whole time, tasting blood. It had taken restraint to keep himself from scrambling over the table to tear that smirking expression from Agrev's face. But even if he'd tried, he'd have gotten nowhere. He was a malnourished charity case from the Under. He was so fragile his skin was blistered from a single day under the sun, so fragile that it hurt. The only warm things he'd ever held in this frigid place were his eevees, and he was starkly, painfully aware that he was a paper doll in razor winds, and it was only Gonzap's goodwill that shielded him from being stripped of the only good things he had.

And Gonzap wanted him humiliated here today, so the team could get their cheap kicks in, so they wouldn't hate him so much they'd just leave him out in the desert to die. It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Today was laying ground rules, limits. Today was the boss putting his new favorite toy out on display, so the grunts knew how rough they were allowed to handle it.

"Anything you'd like to add, Wes?" Gonzap asked, as though he didn't hold Wes's life like a choke chain collar, as though he and Wes and everyone else didn't know it.

"No, boss," Wes answered. 

* * *

Wes had grown up on the streets of the Under, a city built deep in a ravine, in old mining tunnels, lit only by neon and flickering yellow filament bulbs. It was a city soaked in filth, from gangs to grime, from crime lords and shady dealings to a thick layer of ash and dust and slime and rust that coated every exposed surface. It was cold during the day and freezing at night. And that was in the good part of town.

Drunks and druggies were constantly stumbling through the streets with dumb expressions on their inebriated faces. If someone knew where to look, the whole of the city was ripe with prey. And Wes was one of the scavengers, stalking after the sick and the weak, his sharp yellow eyes watching for when they were distracted, their minds were wandering, and they wouldn't notice his sticky fingers filching their wallets out of their pockets.

He was good at what he did, because being bad at it meant being beaten black and blue. At the very least it meant he didn't eat. There weren't a lot of options for a child barely literate with no one who'd miss him if he disappeared.

There was one notable exception to the dog-eat-dog Wes had known - a man named Vinc who was boisterous and loud and had pale red outlander skin. He hailed from some far-away place, a region called Unova, which Wes only vaguely knew about from the tattered pages of the travel magazines he used as bedding. A land of opportunity, it was called, filled with happy people with smiling faces. Everywhere but Orre seemed to be like that.

Vinc was a chef who had fled from his home after some kind of scandal at his workplace. He was now employed by one of the gaudy, expensive hotels catering to foreign guests looking to wet their beaks with services not available anywhere else in the world. He'd caught Wes by the tail as Wes stalked the alleyway behind the bright neon signs for outlanders who didn't know how to keep their belongings secure, and - maybe because he was a outlander himself, too trusting and kind for his own good - Vinc had offered him a meal.

Had Wes been any other low-life street rat, that would have been the end of it. Especially since Vinc never shut up, going on and on about what a shithole Orre was, how much he missed the Unova shore, how his talents were being wasted here, and, most annoyingly of all, his strange outlander religion. Something called Arceus, something called Palkia and Dialga, ambiguous things that Wes didn't care about because they were useless and had nothing to do with anything in his life. But Vinc had taken his silence as receptiveness, and invited Wes back again and again, a once-a-week free meal. Even if he thought Vinc was a big dumb oaf...that was still kindness, preciously scarce, and Wes was fond of him.

"This is your mark," Gonzap said, as he tapped the digital map display with a finger twice as thick as Wes's own. "The man's got some outlander name. Vincent-something-something. It's not important. What _is_ important is that his son's tenth birthday is coming up, and he's been making a racket all up and down the Under about a pokémon he got sent special from overseas."

Vinc had told him about it once. His son was his pride and joy. Back in Vinc's home region, ten years old was considered a threshold, a first foray into the big wide world, and it was tradition for a child to be gifted a 'mon and sent on an adventure. Vinc had been pulling in the contacts of his old friends, been planning for _years_ , to make sure his son got the same pokémon he'd started with.

Wes bit his lip and Gonzap cuffed him on the head for it, sending Wes's little teeth puncturing the skin. "You stupid brat. If you pull a face like that, I'll think you _care_ about your mark. And you don't care about your mark, do you?"

"Sorry, boss," Wes said, trying to smooth out his expression. The compliance to his order made Gonzap grin. He continued.

"Rumor says it's a Tepig. Little fire-type. It's an easy two grand. Frankly, we're doing this guy a favor. The way he's bragging, if we don't move fast, someone'll beat us to the punch, eh, Wes?"

Gonzap laughed while Wes tried miserably to maintain his disaffected façade. Gonzap's words weren't true - Vinc could afford to brag because his pokémon were tough. Pokémon were a status symbol in Orre, a region that was so inhospitable they had no wild pokémon. The way Vinc described it, in other regions, pokémon were practically oozing from the walls. Wes couldn't imagine it, the same as he could never imagine himself wearing shiny watches or clothes that didn't have holes worn into the fabric. Vinc, who had three tough pokémon from having lived in such a fantastical, friendly world, could have gotten his fancy job from that alone. Probably only Snagem had the guts to go after something he kept hidden inside his house.

"Think you're up for it, kid?" Gonzap asked, merrily shaking Wes's body. 

Vinc kept a spare key hidden in a false piece of railing. From the outside, you'd never know it was there. Sundays during the day, his entire family was out of the house for hours. Wes had been invited in before, knew the rough layout - at least where to start looking. Yes, he could do this job. He could do it no problem.

But as he thought of Vinc's big, friendly smile, and the warm food on his plate, he found the words stuck in his throat like bile. If he did this job, then what would he be? 

He didn't know if he could say Vinc had ever saved his life. But he did know that he'd have been much more lost without a guaranteed Sunday meal.

Gonzap's eyes narrowed. "Oi, Wes. This is an easy job. Cheap job with a big payday. If you can't do it, I'll be _disappointed."_

Wes snapped to attention. Disappointed was bad. Disappointed was _very_ bad. His own umbreon and espeon garnered covetous gazes every day. If any of his teammates wanted to take them by force, Wes was simply too small and weak to stop them. The only reason no one dared to try was that Wes had Gonzap's favor, and if he lost even that...

"I can do it, boss," he said.

It was an easy job, just like Gonzap said it would be. Wes found the pokéball giftwrapped, hidden at the back of Vinc's closet. Attached was a card in bright blue and red printed with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" on the front. Wes couldn't bring himself to read the inside, and his boss didn't bother, crumpling it up and tossing it haphazardly into the trash.

Later that week he saw his teammates poking at it from outside the cage bars, trying to see if they could prod it into spouting fire to show their prospective client. As it squealed in pain, as his teammates laughed, as he found himself thinking "better him than me..." 

He felt like crying, but he had no tears to give. They'd all dried up long ago. So instead, something in his heart just ached, where a piece of it had shattered and the shards dug into whatever was left.

"That was such a clean job, it almost feels like an inside one," Gonzap laughed, setting a can of bloody Mary mix in front of him. "Did you know that guy?"

This time, Wes's expression remained smooth, because he was a diligent student. He learned fast, if nothing else.

"Not at all, boss."

* * *

Wes was the best in the team.

However you measured it, he was the best. He made the most profits per week. He complained the least. He had no bad habits - no drugs, no gambling, no alcohol. He was slick enough that he'd never once gotten caught, even though his bounty was second only to the boss and the second-in-command. Slick enough that his wanted poster didn't even have a photo to use.

The spheal he'd lifted off a tourist at the port pressed itself to the cage bars, crying. A houndour he'd swiped from a kid his age was snarling at his approach. A pack of poochyena - siblings, probably, like his 'eons had been - which he'd pilfered off a mail shipment, who had come with matching collars, huddled themselves in the furthest corner, warily watching his every move. And between him and the bed of the truck he was riding on were nine cramped cages filled with the haul from a group effort, a train robbery, that Wes had acted as the lookout for. Everything was noisy, noisy. The base was always noisy, the transport was always noisy, the auction was always noisy. He hated the noise.

In front of them hummed two more hovertrucks similarly laden with merchandise. With their team having grown over the three years since Wes had been signed on, they were slowly dominating the black market trade. Out of the eighteen grunts they had working the field, out of this week's haul of sixty-three 'mons going to market, Wes was responsible for lifting nineteen of them.

From tourists. From families. From kids. En route to new, legitimate owners. To research stations. To happy lives.

The houndour, for all its grandstanding, let out a whine as Wes grabbed its cage bars, scuttling backwards, claws scraping against the metal. Umbreon and espeon, suntanning above its cage, looked on, because they had learned the same lessons Wes had.

"Yeah, that's right," Wes said, joylessly. "I did this to you."

He pressed his forehead against the steel and sighed.

In the houndour's eyes he could see himself. Bleached blond hair. That ever-present scar across his nose, which refused to fade. And the red vest that signified he was as Snagem as Snagem got, still too big for his scrawny body. All of them indicators of Gonzap's hold on Wes's leash, as clear as if he had an actual collar around his neck.

His grip tightened as his expression turned hard. His eyes were scary, his team liked to say. The yellow color was a bad omen. 

"You're gonna get sold to the highest bidder," Wes said, because he knew how this went. "And then they're gonna work you until you drop." 

All he got in return was a hateful glare, the houndour growling out a warning, snapping at the air. Wes slid down to its level, kneeling on cold steel. He never dropped his gaze.

"If you want my advice…" his golden eyes narrowed. "...Break a leg on the bars. It's easy if you can torque it right. Then maybe you'll go to a breeder from a mill, where at least you'll get three square meals a day."

It gave a cry and rushed at him, snapping its fangs where Wes's fingers had been. In one swift move, he clamped its mouth shut with both hands. Houndour had a painful bite (this, Wes knew from experience), but they couldn't pry their mouths open if even a little force was used. 

In its eyes, Wes saw fear. No matter how it pulled and whined, it couldn't break itself free of Wes's grip. Trapped. Trapped, like everyone else on this truck bed, even the ones without a cage.

"Fighters like you...you're only gonna find trouble," Wes murmured. "Someone's gonna break you in."

He let go, and the houndour backed away, tail held low. Wes watched it go, then turned and walked to the other end of the truck, slumping down so his legs dangled over the sand cloud billowing behind the vehicle.

If he fell off now, he'd never be found. He'd wither up in the desert sands until he was nothing more than a mummified corpse, and then his soul would be trapped in the whirling winds. He thought that maybe that wouldn't be so bad. 

But he stayed put, stared up at the sky, noticed that the houndour had quieted down after being put in its place. Even so, it was noisy, the wind howling in his ears.

"Good choice."

* * *

"There's something wrong with this kid," said Snagem's second-in-command. The nervous looks being shot between the two grunts holding Wes down in place said that they thought the same.

Every inch of him was in pain, but that was almost nice. Nice, because for the first time, he had a _reason_ to be in pain. A cause. Something to protect. If only he could endure this, everything would be alright.

Snagem was thieves, but they weren't murderers...for all their grandstanding, it was unlikely they'd _kill_ him. So all he needed to do was keep his mouth shut (even if biting down on the inside of his cheek had filled his mouth with blood, even if he could taste bile on the back of his tongue)...he just needed to keep quiet, and surely the eevees he'd pilfered from Snagem's warehouse would realize he wouldn't be returning, that they should run off without him.

He'd told them the way. Shown them one of the elevators that he couldn't afford. And yet, for some reason, they'd chosen to stay with him all these months - in his weakness, he'd even dreamed they'd be able to save up enough to escape to the surface together. How stupid that seemed to him now.

When the two of them made it out into the open sky, he hoped they would think of him sometimes.

In the real world - the one where a gash across his face was dripping blood onto the concrete floor - the second-in-command continued. 

"He hasn't talked, hasn't even cried, he just glares at us with those grim-reaper eyes...he's gotta be only nine, ten years old. Maybe there's something broken in his brain, boss."

But the boss just laughed as he wiped the blood off his switchblade. "You think so?" he asked, grinning. "But you know, I don't dislike that."

* * *

"They're called 'shadow pokémon,'" the man in the labcoat explained. They were in some secret lab - Wes had been blindfolded for the trip over - peering through bulletproof glass. "A natural phenomenon, but we've found a way to induce it artificially."

The lab, Wes thought, was unnervingly clean. The rest of Orre was covered by either rust, sand, or grime; this place had shiny floors and smooth, grey walls. It must be newly-built, to have yet to show the wear of the unforgiving desert. He was sure that, ten years from now, it'd be a creaking, abandoned mess.

On the other side of the partitioned room was a phanpy that had been lashed to a table with thick bands of black rubber. Electric nodes were being pasted onto its body by a laboratory technician in full hazmat gear. Above the phanpy's head was the apparatus the electric wires connected to. It looked a bit like a microscope, Wes thought, a big metal arm curling up from the floor, and a telescoping lens pointed at the table. At the tip of the lens was set an ominous black-violet crystal, which Wes recognized on sight.

Heartstone. That was the name they had for it in the Under, where it flourished in lightless places, like fungus or mold. It was called that because a legend, passed down from before the gold rush, said that it could turn your heart to stone. It was an ugly rock, Wes thought, scowling on the inside. He knew it well.

"Unfortunately, we've found that the discharge from the M-18, what we colloquially call 'shadow crystal,' has negative effects on the human psyche when overexposed, but rest assured that you should be safe from behind the glass."

Big, fancy words to explain things Wes already knew. Heartstone was a poison. Everyone who'd grown up in the Under was aware of its effects. Gonzap, in any case, just laughed and cuffed Wes on the shoulder.

"Make sure you're paying attention, y'hear?"

"Yes, boss."

No one had said it aloud, afraid of the rift it would cause among the ranks, but it was clear by now that Wes was Gonzap's successor. Over the years, as he'd maintained his flawless performance, as he'd maintained his boss's favor, the gulf between him and his teammates had only deepened - but no one dared speak out against him now. Not when it was so obvious who the next boss would be. Not when it was such a clear culmination of all of Wes’s efforts.

That was probably why he was here. Snagem had entered a deal with another group called Cipher about a year ago, and at this point there were talks that Snagem would be taken in as an official subsidiary once Cipher took over the region. Therefore, as the next-in-line, Wes now had to learn about Cipher. It was an easy enough logic to follow.

The lab technician finished his work, flashed an "OK" gesture to the team outside the glass, and took several steps back. It was clearly noisy behind the soundproof glass, the phanpy writhing and crying, its trunk swaying this way and that, but not a single person in the room paid it any mind.

The labbies on their side signalled back and entered commands into the computer, pulling levers and twisting knobs. The bright fluorescent lights in the room dimmed as power was redirected to the apparatus, which lit up with an eerie violet glow as it charged power.

The phanpy began to scream as its body was wracked with electricity. It jerked painfully against the restraints holding it down, rubbing its skin raw and red, and even from their side of the room they could smell the acrid ozone, the burning flesh. 

The heartstone reacted to the cries of pain, somehow glowing and further dimming the room all at once, as its fabled power was invoked. As the minutes dragged on, the phanpy exhausted itself, its body still twitching uncontrollably under the electric shocks, its eyes growing lifeless and dull.

One of the consoles gave a beep. On the screen, as Wes glanced down at it, was a single flat line. A heartbeat monitor. The scientist cursed and entered a command, and the pokémon's body jerked one last time, the monitor giving one last wild peak, before falling flat for good.

The scientist that had been guiding them gave them an apologetic grimace, once they'd confirmed that the phanpy was dead.

"Unfortunately, we weren't able to show you a completed specimen this time," the labbie said. "You see, it's a very taxing process for everyone involved, so very few pokémon actually survive."

Wes thought of his own pokémon on the slab. It was an image that had haunted him since he'd been collared.

"That's why you only want us to send you the strongest that we catch, huh?" Gonzap said, stroking his mustache. Even he wasn't able to tell was Wes was thinking anymore.

"That's right."

Wes was only barely listening as the two hammered out the specifics of their deal - the pay, the technology, the conditions. He watched as they undid the phanpy's bindings and dragged its body out of the room. Another labbie, also fully equipped in hazmat gear, slipped inside and began roughly wiping down the table. His clear bucket of disinfectant was a light pink by the time he was done.

" - well, every day we improve the process," their guide finally concluded. "Let's continue our tour, shall we?"

His boots tapped smartly against the steel tile as he walked past them to lead the way back. Wes followed after Gonzap, discarding the useless feelings in his chest. One day he was going to be inheriting this. He had been brought here because he needed to know.

From behind him he heard the sound of a door sliding open, and he turned back to look.

A pignite was being lead into the room. Wes met its eyes.

Then he looked away.

* * *

That night, as he lay stretched out on the ratty, thin mattress that counted for his bed, staring up through a gap in the ceiling at the night sky above them, a sandstorm raging in his chest cavity, he felt his eons come bumping up under his arms, threading their heads through the loops of his elbows.

Warm, they were warm. Under the thin, bleached-out blanket he could feel the rise and fall of their chests. The only warm things in this frigid, godforsaken desert.

He pressed his face into his Umbreon's neck, and, finally, sheltered between the two of them - his partners, his brothers, the only family he had - finally, he let his unforgivable weakness show.

"I gotta get out of here," he breathed, into his umbreon's smooth fur, black as the night. "I gotta get out of here. I gotta get out of here…"

His umbreon let out a purr, so low Wes felt the rumble of its chest more than he heard the sound, and he squeezed. 

He was being suffocated. Everything in him - his stomach, heart, and lungs - was clenching tight, trying to squeeze blood from stone. If only he could cry, then maybe there'd be some escape for the furious winds that lashed at his dry, cracked heart. But he could not. Any tears he'd had had long ago evaporated in the relentless desert sun, and now here was all he was: dessicated and destitute, abjectly aware of the collar strangling the life out of his throat, chaining him to the ground, to this ratty mattress, to this shitty base.

"I gotta get out of here."

But there was nowhere else to go. His hands, already soaked with the tears of others, already stained with blood, were good for nothing but more of what got them there.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, over and over again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Because he couldn't be, once the sun came up. He couldn't afford to be in the morning.

* * *

Gonzap announced Wes to be the official heir and inheritor of Snagem to the surprise of absolutely no one. No one was _surprised,_ but they _were_ unhappy. All their grumbling died on their lips at the next big announcement, however.

Snagem would officially sign on as a Cipher subsidiary. The complaints were immediate. Wasn't Snagem supposed to be like a family? They weren't for sale, they shouted. Wes, with his perfect poker face, looked on as the disagreement turned violent, his fists clenched at his side. He wondered what kind of expression he'd be making if he hadn't learned long ago to play his cards close to his chest.

"I have a third announcement," he finally said, in the ringing silence after Gonzap had won his argument. All eyes turned to stare at him, colored by shades of bewilderment and resentment. Gonzap was always too enamored with Wes to see just how much the others hated him; it was impressive that the second announcement was so unpopular that it had overshadowed the first. But this third one, Wes was sure, would bring the heat back onto his shoulders like nothing else could.

"You're all fired."

The uproar was immediate, but everyone hushed up when Gonzap slammed the meeting table, hard enough for the metal surface to dent. He levied a glare in Wes's direction, eyes narrowed. 

"That look in your eye...I don't like it," he said. "Explain, Wes."

"Cipher lied to you." Wes laid it out in simple terms. "Once their main branch arrives, they won't need a gang like us to steal pokémon for them. Their main branch fronts as a legitimate company. They can get pokémon shipped in on their own."

With every sentence, the tension in the room rose. Gonzap, so brimming with pride and confidence just a second ago, had a devastated expression on his face as Wes's words sank in.

"I met with an admin when I figured it out. He offered me a contract…" Wes trailed off, then started again. "...As a solo gig. My first job is to get them their stuff back."

"You - you're joking, Wes," Gonzap said in disbelief. Then his confusion turned to anger. Fury. "You _traitor._ After everything I did for you - "

As Gonzap reached for him, Wes put two fingers into his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. A booming roar echoed through the base's hallways, rattling the rusted steel, and the doorway was wrenched open by a tyranitar's claws - on loan, a request he'd made. Wes stepped over to its side as it growled with fangs bared.

"If any of you move from this spot, it's going to attack," Wes said, plainly. "It's a shadow pokémon. You know what that means, right?"

There was, he supposed, something poetic to be had in his team's terrified expression in the face of one of the monsters they helped to create.

Well, he thought, allowing himself a sardonic grin. He supposed there were actually two.

"Wes," Gonzap called, as he turned to go. Wes stopped, but didn't look back. At least he should hear out the man's last words, right? Wes owed many things to him - valuable lessons, no matter how he'd learned them. Even if today was payback, it didn't mean Gonzap had given him nothing of worth.

"You have always been like a son to me," Gonzap said. For once, he sounded sincere, honest. Vulnerable, even.

Wes's grin only widened at that. At this point, that was all he had to say? What a joke.

"Sorry," Wes said. "You're the only one who thought that way."


	3. Climbing the corporate ladder.

The Orre desert was a cold and unforgiving and inhospitable place. The relentless sun shined down on howling winds, and everything was dust and sand heaped up into massive dunes, was jagged red rocks and ravines like deep gouges in the earth. Bird claws, Wes had heard it said; the great birds of the sun and the sea had scraped these ravines into the desert, and no amount of sand or tears could fill them up again. Empty, forever.

And Wes was, like the desert, cold and harsh and inhospitable. A cursed child, destined to be the piece that didn't fit, with ragged, torn edges and sand in his voice.

The admin who had signed him on was named Miror B. He was a formidable man, standing nearly double Wes's height, his hair painted red and white and his clothes a gaudy yellow. That formidable nature allowed him leeway in his choice of subordinates. Wes had been signed on less for his skill - although that was a factor as soon as it was apparent - and more because, as Miror put it, he was exactly Miror's "type." There were no expectations for him beyond that. 

But it became obvious within the month that Wes was, again in Miror's terms, "no good." 

"Darling, it's the look in your eye," Miror said with a wide, unparsable grin, showing his white tombstone teeth. "Like you aren't even looking at me. At first I thought it'd be exciting, having someone around who acts like they're a starving beast about ready to tear me to shreds, but there's actually nothing cute about you at all, is there?"

He remembered the parting curses his team had spat in his direction as he abandoned them in the Eclo Canyon. Nothing cute, huh.

"My old team thought so too, boss."

"Fuohohoho!" Miror laughed. "Yes, nothing cute at all! We~ell, if it's your work performance, there's nothing to complain about. In fact, you've more than made up for the slack of my other two cute boys…"

Of course. His workload now was so light that it drove him up the wall. As if Miror was telling him how useless and unnecessary he was, all Miror gave him were miniscule, menial jobs. He could finish them off in an afternoon, and then he'd be looking at a week of nothing. A nothing that was so achingly, obviously some kind of trap, made to get rid of him the moment they had evidence of his indolence. 

So, when Trudly and Folly, Miror's two "favorites" that were more style than substance, had sauntered up to him to dump their workload onto his shoulders ("we're your seniors, so do as we say, got it, punk?") he was almost - _almost_ \- grateful.

Miror leaned forward so he was closer to Wes's eye level, leveraging his height with a shit-eating grin as he poked Wes's nose with his index finger.

"That's a problem, isn't it, Wes darling?"

Wes gave no reaction, his arms folded behind his back. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn just now - Miror liked to play with his food. Conscious of the sharpness of his own gaze, Wes had trained it on the corrugated iron floor. He gave no action to indicate Miror had shaken him up either way. Creatures like that got bored, eventually...

"I don't know what you mean, boss."

Miror heaved a sigh and straightened up again, one hand on his hips and the other dramatically clutching his forehead.

"Absolutely! Nothing! Cute! At! All!" he shouted at the steel ceiling. When he was done, he gave a second heavy sigh, before finally addressing Wes again. "In simple terms, those two cuties already spend so much time slacking off I'm surprised mold doesn't grow on them. With you around, I'd just be encouraging their bad habits. So! I'm transferring you out of my division."

He wasn't fired, then. The worst case did not come to pass. He would be fine. He repeated it to himself, desperately trying to soothe the knot in his stomach. _They_ would be fine, him and his 'eons, because he still had a job here; he was not being fired.

"Where am I headed to?"

"Not even sorry to go...fuhohoho, but I suppose that's my Wes for you! Dear boy, this is a _promotion_. You'll be one step below the admins, but you'll answer directly to all of us." Miror grinned and tapped his chin. "You ought to be grateful. I put in a good word for you with the others, you know~"

Wes knew at least how to pay this kind of lip service. He gave a perfunctory bow of the head. 

"Thanks, boss."

Something so small and devoid of feeling was clearly not what Miror was expecting, and he heaved another dramatic sigh. "Arceus, you're really just hopeless, hopeless; it's such a sad, sad sight when such a young boy as yourself is so totally incapable of any cuteness at all."

With those words, said with a totally out-of-character tinge of sorrow, Miror knelt down to Wes's eye level, hands clasped between them.

"Hey, tell me, darling boy; what I read from the reports was that Snagem as good as raised you. Are you really not even the littlest bit choked up over the chicanery you pulled?"

Maybe they were still swarming their empty base, trying to regain their past glory despite losing their tech, their backing, their ace, their dignity. Or maybe they were worse-off than that, abandoned in the desert with nowhere to go. It wasn't any of his business anymore, he told himself. With that in mind, his reaction was a derisive snort.

"You were the one who told me to do it if I wanted this job."

"What a terrifying little twerp you are." Miror broke his pretend sympathy when he realized Wes had none, grinning wide. "Just so that you know, my boy, if you aim for my position as admin with that newfound power of yours, you'll be sorely sorry."

Now, _those_ words - not words about cuteness or words about remorse - _those_ words, he could understand. The correct answer, whenever the boss wanted to remind you who was the boss, was always just a bow and agreement. There were no good outcomes for anything else.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Such a nasty little liar you are," Miror laughed. "With those eyes of yours that tell me you'll eviscerate me at my first misstep. Go on, then, I hear Dakim needs a gopher; go be someone else's problem!"

* * *

"Miror," Ein had said, with a sharp, irritated frown, "you know that using the word 'uncute' doesn't help inform our decision at all."

"Well, _I_ think it's fairly descriptive," Venus pitched in, gazing up over her veil. Ein had never liked her - she was a woman who playacted at innocence and frivolity, who was always starkly aware of where the gazes of others was trained. Sharp-eyed and with a light touch, she held all the Under in the palm of her hand. Among them, the hardest one to read.

"Uncute means uncute," she said. "We've hooked quite a dangerous little fish, haven't we?"

Dakim snorted, reclining back on his seat while tossing his copy of the personnel report onto the table. "He looks like he'd break apart in one hit. Are you serious about recommending him for a promotion? Skrub might tear the competition apart."

In general, Ein's estimation of Dakim was that he was a musclebrain. He'd been disgraced by his people and joined Cipher out of spite. Even so, he dressed in their ceremonial clothes, bright white, red streaks painted on his face, muddying whatever point he was trying to prove. But he was, among them, the strongest battler, and unfortunately, that meant he had a vote on matters of politics and strategy, neither of which he was particularly skilled at.

"Fuhohoho! You underestimate him, Dakim. He is, you see, _much_ less cute than our dear boy Skrub."

And then there was Miror. Gaudy and extravagant, fond of taking hopeless cases under his wing and coddling them excessively. But he was perceptive, skilled, and competent; Ein respected him the most, even it was a low bar.

Even so, Miror could be...vexing. Ein sighed, because he did not have time for this when his incompetent labbies were probably screwing up without him there.

"Uncute this, less cute that; you've had your fun, so one of you explain already."

"Ah, there, you see?" Miror asked, grinning widely at him. "That reaction there was cute, Ein. You have a knack for it!"

Ein's scowl deepened.

Venus giggled and leaned forward, tapping her cheek with a glittering manicured nail, her sharp gaze at odds with her gentle facade. "Cuteness is weakness, Ein dearest. Pouting because you're spoiled, grumbling because you're thin-skinned, cowering because you're scared…that is what 'cuteness' entails. There's hardly anything more adorable than a man begging for his life, don't you agree?"

"You're a terrifying woman," Dakim muttered. She smiled at him, flouncing her long brown hair.

"Well, you could say I'm uncute. But Miror, you say this Wes boy is even less cute than me?"

Miror threw his head back and laughed. "Fuhohoho! Uncute doesn't even begin to describe it. If I had things my way, we'd send him to HQ and let him be their problem - but your faces tell me you don't see what the big deal is. Well, all I'll say is that I am nominating him for a promotion. Shall we call for agreement?"

"I am not against it, so count me in favor," Venus said, raising one hand into the air. "I think a new face would at least do dear Skrub some good. A kick in the pants, hm?"

Dakim harrumphed and crossed his arms. "I think this is a foolish decision. Either he is, as you say, 'uncute,' and we are forced to waste time watching our backs, or else he is nothing more or less than a plucky, inexperienced child. I vote nay."

All eyes turned to Ein, the last one to decide. If they couldn't reach a decision here, it'd go to Nascour, their acting Master, as a tiebreaker - and no one particularly wanted to catch Nascour's attention. That was certainly a factor that weighed on Ein's mind as he deliberated with himself in silence.

"...I agree with Dakim's view," Ein finally said, "as it’s the most logical argument here. _However,_ ” he glanced around the room from behind his glasses. “It’s relatively rare for Miror to put so much faith into someone’s ability. And having seen the reports myself, there’s no doubt about his productivity.” 

“Simple terms, please, Ein,” Venus said, turning his own words back at him. “Are you yay or nay?”

Ein humored her with an irritated snort. “I say we put him in a promotional spot on a probationary basis. Give him a couple months to impress those of us on the fence. That should, as Venus suggests, give Skrub a ‘kick in the pants,’ without any commitment on our end.”

His gaze was sharp as he levied it on the rest. “If he turns out to be useless, we get rid of him. How does that sound?”

“I’m fine either way, so you have my vote,” Venus said, in her toying, flippant tone. 

Dakim gave a grunt. “Well, I still don’t like it, but out of respect to you, Miror, I suppose there’s no harm in this.”

“Fuhohoho, you flatter me!” Miror laughed. “Since it’s three votes for yes, I suppose it’s as good as passed! So indulge me just one more thing…?"

He leaned forward in his seat, tapping the metal table with his forefinger in a one-two rhythm. 

"I'm starting a pot for Wes's success. How does three hundred sound?"

"Count me in," Venus laughed. She was, after all, the mistress of the gambling dens. "Another three hundred on the boy. I love longshots and underdogs...or in this case, an underpup?"

"You two are incorrigible," Dakim grunted, shaking his head. "Three hundred on his failure."

Once more, the three of them turned to Ein.

"I really despise all of you," he said, pushing his glasses up. "Fine. I'll even out the pot."

* * *

Gonzap had grown up on the rough side of Io Port; his hands were calloused from years of handling salt-soaked ropes and ocean-battered wood starting from before he was able to do his basic maths, before his baby fat had sloughed off. He grew up against a backdrop of the glittering blue sea, wind-swept clouds that never carried rain, the crashing of waves and the cry of wingull - because only the desert itself was _truly_ inhospitable; the coast, the forest, and the scattered islands still held within them life, although it was scant and scarce.

The work wasn't exactly honest. Or to be more accurate, it was honest every once in a while, every fourth or fifth ship. The rest of the time, the cargo they carried was not meant for the light of day, for honest pay. So it was probably preordained that there'd be filth in his future, although his father and mother had insisted he go into honest work someday, like his two elder brothers. But Gonzap was ever the contrarian. There was a high that came with evading the cops, slipping past customs, sliding his way through life on the outer rim of the law. It was more addicting than any of the cargo that passed through his hands. He'd do anything, anything, for another hit.

So in the end - predictably - and although he'd loved them dearly - his family could no longer offer him a place to stay. He'd picked his poison, his father had said. So he wasn't allowed to cry when it killed him some day. 

Those words echoed in his ears the day he'd taken the boy home.

Working so closely with pokémon, Gonzap had developed a good sense for a raging beast's temperament. It was easy to tell a fighter from the timbre of their gaze alone. Those, at least in terms of the pokémon they trafficked, were the ones worth investing in. So he'd convinced himself that that was what he was doing, since he knew very well exactly what kind of pit of snakes he'd thrown that hapless ten-year-old into. 

The boy's gaze was, in a word, chilling. Like he had already seen all the cruelty the world had to offer - like it was already a piece of him. Even as his wounds were treated by Gonzap's most trusted medical associate, the passive, dispassionate mistrust in his expression never wavered even once. Even as he winced in pain, since Gonzap had refused anesthetic on his behalf - even as he flinched on instinct from the stinging antiseptic, never once did his voice rise in protest. As if there was no space in his child-sized heart for frivolities - as if he had already discarded his own self, every fiber of his fragile being attuned to survival and nothing more.

To be perfectly honest, merchandise like that was completely unsalable. Anything with that kind of gall would only ever grow sharper, until it got sharp enough to slice open its own hilt to bite through its handler's skin. Just like how a sword that would attack its master was a useless sword, merchandise that could never be owned was merchandise with a value of absolutely zero.

And maybe that was why Gonzap had picked him up, despite Wakin's protests. After all, "free" and "priceless" were synonyms. 

This feeling was only bolstered after he took the boy, blinking, into the sun, to the shocked murmurs of the rest of the team when they saw that the boy's dark brown hair gleamed gold where the light hit. It tickled his value-loving heart to think that he'd completed a set of Orre natives; first the two eevees, thought to have been extinct in the region, and now one of the mortician race. To think he'd found one hidden so deep in the exhausted mines of the Under - must have been, in his estimation, about the same odds as striking gold. He really thought so.

It was a shame they'd have to get rid of his hair somehow. Bleach it, shave it, whatever. After all, that gold-streaked hair native to the indigenous desert nomads was so distinctive that it actively infringed on Wes's future prospects as a criminal. As Gonzap's heir. And besides, it was bad juju; since all the natives lived in the funeral town, made their livelihoods from selling flower seeds and handling stiffs, the rest of the team would only see Wes as a bad omen if his hair and eyes were left alone.

Gold hair, gold eyes, kicked off their lands in the gold rush; everything came back to gold in Orre.

"Hey, kid," he said, as the boy picked listlessly at his white bandages, his expression exhausted and gaunt (although the light in his eyes did not waver). "You got a name?"

"Wes," he answered, without even looking up. Gonzap chuckled.

"Wes, huh. It suits you."

* * *

He buried his forehead in his Umbreon's fur, while his Espeon nuzzled into his palm as it curled up on his lap. He wondered if they didn't all three of them have the same scent; Snagem had always complained about their stink. But the 'eons had always smelled to him the way his own body smelled - dry and dusty, the taste of sand on the wind.

In his free hand, he clutched the pokéball he'd been given. His "graduation gift," Miror had called it, punctuated with another round of raucous laughter over how uncute he was when he'd seen the contents with his own eyes. Miror was, as usual, impossible to parse, and yet impossibly dangerous. What, exactly, had he meant by way of this gift? Wes couldn't help but feel a creeping dread that the man was simply trying to get a rise - any rise at all - out of him. That he was being somehow played.

His heart had tightened, his throat had squeezed, and the words were like glass dragging over his tongue, but he'd said all he'd needed to say.

"Thanks, boss."

Uncute. Yeah, even he thought so. There was nothing cute at all in his reaction.

* * *

"This is my Skarmory," Gonzap said with a laugh, patting the bird's metal flank with his wide, calloused hand. "She's gotten me through more scrapes than I can even remember. Careful with your fingers, now! She's a biter."

* * *

A Skarmory, with a deep scratch across one of its eyes from a skirmish it had survived against a Braviary when Snagem was first starting out, stared at its new master with a cold, empty gaze, as he traced the line of its beak with a black-gloved hand.

Wes still had the scar from when the cruel, spoiled bird had tried to take a chunk out of his arm. 

"So you survived the process, huh?" Wes asked, his hand dropping back to his side. But the Skarmory didn't respond - of course not. There wasn't anything left to respond with. This was a shadow pokémon - an empty shell that only lived insofar as its heart was beating. A terrible, pitiful thing.

Maybe he should try to take a page from his coworkers' books, and find some kind of pleasure in being able to so totally subjugate a pokémon that its powers were now his to do with as he pleased. No, if he had any sense at all, then that was the proper course of action. But even when he tried to muster up that kind of feeling, none came. Just the bitter taste of blood and bile at the back of his throat.

His Umbreon came up to nuzzle one hand; his Espeon, the other. Together, the three of them looked on at the sorry sight before them, a childhood bully turned into nothing more than a disemboweled, living corpse. 

Did Gonzap volunteer his most prized fighter, knowing this would be the result? With all Wes had suffered under the man, the answer was yes, more likely than not. That was the kind of person he was. That was the mold he'd raised Wes to fit. Who, then, was responsible for these rough edges, these jagged, jutting corners, that had brought him so much grief? Who was responsible for the fact that just looking upon the bird Cipher had broken, so it would never again fly of its own volition, twisted his stomach into a sickened knot?

His Espeon gave a trill, and his Umbreon gave a purr, and Wes heaved a sigh in response. He dug the Skarmory's pokéball out from his uniform's utility belt and called it back. 

He knelt down onto the cold, polished tile that made up the floor of his new base, and his 'eons curled close. They, like him, knew that only survival mattered, living to see the next day. They'd put up with anything - even fighting alongside an empty shell - if it meant they'd make it to tomorrow. And so, they traded rusted steel and a ratty blanket for reflective stone and a real mattress, and yet nothing at all had changed. 

All that they had was what little air there was that existed between them, the space within his arms. Everything else was so much inexhaustible, inescapable noise.

"We did it, guys. We won."

For whatever that was supposed to be worth.

* * *

"And these are the security tape archives - oi, are you even paying attention, freshmeat?"

Wes started to glare, but caught himself at the last moment, dropping his gaze to the floor. His position was probationary, which meant he couldn't afford to offend. 

"I'm paying attention," Wes said.

Skrub gave a haughty snort, a toss of his crested helmet, which denoted his higher rank. The helmet Wes carried under his arm had a similar, ugly crest. "Really? It's so hard to tell when you give me a dumb expression like that."

Wes imagined himself somewhere far away, someplace he wouldn't need to listen to Skrub's inane prattling any longer. He'd had enough of this stupid, worthless grandstanding, this pointless macho dick-waving, from his seven shitty years in Snagem. Was he going to be subjected to it forever? 

Every word out of Skrub's mouth made him tired. Noise, noise, noise. All this because the color of their uniforms were the same, a light blue-green to contrast the purple full-body armor the low-rank peons wore. It was so, so stupid.

" - Honestly," Skrub continued to grumble. "Out of everyone here, why'd they give the job to _you?"_

Wes didn't know either. He almost wanted to say so, but no good could come of giving lip when his own position was so unstable. If he had to guess, it was because the admins were setting him up to fail. He could read, in their expressions when they'd handed down the promotion, how little faith they'd had in him. The fact that they hadn't bothered at all to put on their poker faces was plenty damning on its own.

Probably, he thought, he was meant as some kind of test for Skrub. But Wes had been here long enough to understand that the admins were not _so_ frivolous as to assign him a completely empty position. Miror was vouching for him in earnest - which meant that, so long as he was competent, he was probably here to stay.

He just had to keep his mouth shut and work. He could do that just fine.

"Your job consists largely of patrols. You're in charge of making sure equipment works, communications are smooth, that the transport vehicles are properly maintained...easy stuff. Even you couldn't mess it up." 

Since they were technically the same rank, Wes knew this wasn't _true_ per se - Skrub was currently in charge of the Agate occupation, of coordinating research regarding the Time Flute and summoning Celebi. These were all high-profile, admin-level jobs on their own; Wes was being dumped the gruntwork that Skrub didn't want to do.

But Wes didn't have allies here, not really. The closest he had to orders right now were Skrub's. If he went against those on his own prerogative, it'd be seen as undermining Skrub's authority at best - and he didn't have the standing to do so. Not yet.

"No response again...are you even listening to me?"

"I'm listening."

Skrub shook his head, clearly convinced Wes was some form of brain damaged. "Arceus. I hope you work better than you talk."

* * *

"You know, Wes," Gonzap laughed, poking at the fresh bruise on the child's face. "You're allowed to stick up for yourself. You don't have to just sit there and take it."

"Yes, boss."

"So what happened this time? Fall 'down the stairs'?"

Wes looked away, since he didn't trust his own expression right now. "Fuston's left hand fell into my face."

"Wahaha! Did it, now?" Gonzap grinned, leaning forward in his seat. "And why did _that_ happen?"

"Because I was biting down on his right," Wes muttered. "Because he wanted to 'play robbers and merchandise' and stuck his fingers in my mouth to look at my teeth."

Gonzap laughed so hard he doubled over, and it took him several minutes to recover his breath enough to continue the conversation. He wiped a tear out of his eye as he leaned back in his seat.

"Fuston!" Gonzap called, to the man sitting next to Wes, who had been glaring at him the whole time. Fuston jumped to attention.

"Yes, boss!"

"Is what Wes said true?"

Fuston emphatically shook his head. "No, boss. I swear I never touched him."

"Let me see your right hand."

Fuston scowled, but did as he was ordered, yanking the black glove off with his teeth and holding it out. Because the leather of the glove had taken the brunt of it, Wes's bite hadn't managed to penetrate the skin, but there were - even now - angry red indents on his index and middle fingers. Gonzap's expression lit up with delight as he inspected the injury, before leaning back to give his verdict.

"Well, since we have two differing accounts, I s'pose there'll be no punishment either way," he said. "But, hypothetically, I hope you've learned your lesson, Fuston."

Fuston gave Wes another dirty glare. "Sure have, boss."

"You're dismissed. And Wes," Gonzap said, ruffling his hair. "Next time you bite someone, make sure it's to end a fight, not start one. Understand?"

Wes watched Fuston's back during his retreat. The other team members always got off scot-free as long as they never went further with their beatings than a few big, black bruises. Wes could work if he ached all over, but couldn't work with broken bones. Enraged as Fuston was, he'd managed to restrain himself to acceptable limits.

Stand up for himself? End a fight? Ridiculous. He was a child going up against the strength of adults. But there was only ever one answer that Gonzap would accept.

"Understood, boss."

* * *

"Your work performance has been satisfactory," Ein said, "so we're making your new position permanent."

Frankly, it was beyond satisfactory. Ein had harbored doubts at first about this... _child_ , who had apparently been born and raised first in the Under (quaint) and then in a gang ( _quaint)_ , had never been properly educated, had never had an honest day's work. But he proved to be not only competent, but that most valued trait of all - silent. His old master must have trained him well; his only words whenever interacting with Ein were "yes, boss" and "thanks, boss." He quickly became Ein's favorite subordinate.

Dakim still protested the promotion, this time claiming he disliked how impossible Wes's expression was to read, but with Ein firmly convinced of Wes's usefulness, the vote became three-to-one in the boy's favor. To the good news, as expected, Wes only gave a slight, stiff incline of his head, and the word "understood."

Ein placed the dataslab he was reading from onto his desk, his legs crossed as he reclined back in the seat of his private office, peering over his mirrored glasses. Wes stood just in front of the door, feet planted at shoulder width and hands folded behind his back. Ein wondered again, not for the first time, what it was Miror found so "uncute" about him. In Ein's estimation, he was just a little kid, scrawniness a clear side-effect of childhood malnutrition, his quaint upbringing having taught him not to waste his words. If cuteness was weakness, then Wes was plenty weak. Everything else about him was just a mask for that weakness, wasn't it?

Well, maybe all that it was was that Ein didn't see Wes as competition. Their business was cutthroat, but Ein's job was secure; the only competition he had were the scientists under him, and, frankly speaking, most of them were some flavor of useless. Even if Wes _was_ gunning for an admin seat under that flat expression of his, he could hardly gun for Ein's. After all, he was a child that struggled with basic spelling and grammar, a dictionary pulled up on his screen whenever his awkward, teenage fingers tried to file a report. Ein had little to fear from that.

His inner musings dragged on a little longer, until eventually Wes had to shake him out of his reverie.

"Is there anything else, boss?"

Ein hummed in thought. "There's no pressing business, but I suppose I still wanted to have a chat with you. If that cuts into your business with one of the others, then feel free to tell them I stole your time."

Ah, there was Wes's charming non-expression. Why couldn't all their subordinates be like this? 

"I notice you've been logging more time into the Battle SIM systems than anyone else," Ein noted. "Having fun in there?"

Wes's answer was immediate and unblinking. "Yeah."

Ein smirked. See? Weakness and the mask that covered it. Maybe the others were just too oblivious to notice. The fact was that Wes was weak; someone already strong wouldn't need to spend so many hours in the basic type match-up tutorials, playing catch-up. 

"And I've also heard rumors that you're reluctant to use the shadow pokémon you were given. Skarmory, yes? Is there something wrong with its function?"

"No, boss."

Ein's smirk grew wider. "I've reviewed your battle data from the SIM, so allow me to make an educated guess. Is it perhaps because yours is in a near-constant state of hyper mode?"

Wes's expression didn't change, even as he was caught red-handed in his greatest weakness of all. The only betrayal of his wavering heart was the hesitation before his answer. 

"...Yes, boss."

"Well, seeing as hyper mode triggers more often the closer a pokémon is to purification, and _that_ happens the more kindness a pokémon is shown…" Ein narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "Could it be, Wes, that you're quite soft-hearted after all?"

For a second - a flash of a moment - something slipped through his poker face. The dull expression became sharp, his gaze became fierce, the gold of his eyes glinting like fangs. But in the next instant, it was gone, frozen even stiffer than before.

"I'm not nice to it. I just don't see the point of knocking it around for shits and giggles. If leaving it alone is enough to count as 'kindness,' then maybe that's a problem with your shadow pokémon...boss."

That was a surprise. Ein leaned back in his seat, eyebrows raised.

"So you have some teeth after all," he said, grinning. "And here I thought you were an emotionless fighting machine, yourself. Do you really think I'll let that kind of comment slide, though?"

Without even a little hesitation, Wes answered. 

"If I was permanently promoted, that means the vote was three-to-one. You're not stupid enough to get Nascour involved over something like this."

"Hou, you've got a pretty good grasp of the situation. How unexpected." Ein narrowed his eyes. "But there's ways for me to make your life miserable without demoting you."

"Then try. I'll only give you one warning that that's a bad idea."

Ein chuckled and shook his head. "What could you even do to me?"

He meant it as a rhetorical question, but Wes gave him an answer anyway.

"Thought you hated stupid questions."

"I do."

"Then why are you asking one?"

To that, Ein's smile faltered just a fraction. What, was this idiot suicidal all of a sudden?

"You don't have anything on me."

Wes did not give him an answer - just a glare, no different than the one he usually wore - or so it ought to have been. But if Ein really thought about it, perhaps he'd let his guard down. This side of Wes - full of sharp words and sharper insight - was...unexpected. 

And if that were the case - if Ein had been lulled into a false sense of security - then who knew what kind of mistakes he had made? Ultimately, Wes's threat still seemed empty. This was probably just a bluff. 

"You're bluffing," he voiced the thought aloud. Wes just cocked his head, his expression still cold and unreadable. Now that Ein thought about it, this was the first time Wes had ever looked him in the eyes, held his head up straight. The chill was palpable. It was almost like if Nascour were in the room.

"Want to gamble on that?" Wes asked, his glare unwavering. "I've heard your track record with gambles is pretty bad, though. Since I'm still here."

Ah…

So _this_ was what Miror meant by "uncute."

Yes, truly, there was nothing cute about Wes at all.

"I see," Ein said, smoothing out his own expression. "Well, it seems there's nothing to worry about, then. I look forward to continuing our previous amicable relationship."

With those words, Wes slipped back into his dull façade, lowering his gaze back toward the floor.

"Yes, boss," he said. 

"You're dismissed."

Without another word, Wes turned and left the room.

* * *

"Hey," said the prisoner, from the far corner of her glass holding cell, sandwiched between crying pokémon awaiting the slaughter, her voice somehow clear (like a bell) through the cacophony.

Wes had hoped that she would have kept quiet altogether, so he could go on with his life pretending that she did not exist. So that he wouldn't have to confront a human prisoner as he made his rounds checking the cages, because he had already learned how to deaden his heart to the cries of pokémon, but could only pretend not to notice a human girl curled up among them.

"...Hey," he said, uneasily.

"Could you let me go?"

So straightforward. It was surprising, so he glanced up to look at her, his eyes flashing over her the way he'd been trained to do: first the big picture (a girl his age, maybe a couple years younger) and then the finer details (dirty, disheveled clothes that used to be nice - messy orange hair, tired bags under clear blue eyes). It was surprising enough that her voice sounded so steady despite her predicament - still bright and full of life - and it was even more so when her gaze held his without wavering. 

"No," he said.

She challenged him again. "Why not?"

"Because if I do, it's my ass that's on the line."

"No one has to know."

Wes snorted and gestured up to the camera set in the ceiling. "But they will when they check the records."

"Fine," she said, uncurling herself from the back of her cage and scooting closer to the reinforced glass door. "My name is Rui."

What a baffling person. "Why are you telling me that?"

"Because my parents always told me, if I got kidnapped, that I should try to make friends with my kidnappers, so they're less likely to kill me." She cocked her head to the side. "Is it working?"

Despite his best efforts, Wes felt himself give a snort of genuine amusement. Immediately, he caught himself, freezing his expression back into a mask of indifference, but it was too late. Rui was already breaking into a wide, genuine smile, like it was the easiest thing in the world for her to do.

"See, you laughed! It _is_ working."

"I didn't."

"You did! You _so_ did." She grinned, pressing her hands against the glass. "My name's Rui. What's yours?"

"Why do you even care? I'm one of your kidnappers, right?"

Rui looked surprised. "You are?"

Wes was silent for a few seconds. "I'm...wearing the uniform." He almost wanted to glance down to make sure.

"Oh, but - I mean, you're so _young_ \- and your uniform's a different color - "

Wes could feel himself pulling a face, even as he berated himself for dropping his mask. The person behind the bars was pulling him into her pace - there was something impossible about her. Impossibly cheerful? Impossibly bright? Impossibly clear and friendly? She looked like an outlander, but even by the standards of the outlanders he'd met, she was odd. If it were him in her situation, he'd be quietly sharpening his fangs...but from the sound of it, she'd probably been accosting every peon who came through here in the same way.

"I'm a sub-admin. Or chief peon. Whatever you want to call it." He couldn't help but find it funny that his promotion didn't have an official title. The sardonicism dripped through his words. "If anything, I'm higher-ranked than anyone who's been out this way so far."

Her eyes widened. Ah - that was the fear he'd been expecting, as she realized her mistake in trying to ask him for help, for trying to build camaraderie with him. "No way…"

"Well, that's how it is, so don't waste your breath."

He turned back to his task, sure that the girl would drop the conversation. Of course, right? Everything about her smelled of foreigner. Although Wes had never been, he'd picked up that the regions outside of Orre were impossible fairytale dreams of happiness and prosperity. That was why outlanders were always such gullible, trusting marks. That was why they scarcely ever wanted anything to do with him.

But Rui - maybe she had no sense of self-preservation, or maybe she was just stupid, or both.

"...Why are you doing this?" she asked, yanking his attention away once more. "I mean, you..."

She tilted her head, looking genuinely concerned, but hesitated to finish her statement. Wes scowled in annoyance.

"What?"

"..You look so much like you're in pain. Everyone else who's come through here, they laugh at the pokémon and kick the glass…but you…"

His eyes narrowed and he stood, walking straight up to her cell. The pokémon to either side, sensing the change in his demeanor, gave whimpers and backed away, yelping in shock as he rammed a fist against the glass, rattling it on its metal lock, making Rui jump.

"You have no idea who I am." His growl was bitter and vindictive, as he let the worst of himself color his words. "You have no idea what I can do."

With her cowed, without dropping his glare, he undid the Cipher armor around his right hand. He watched her expression stiffen as she noticed the dozens and dozens of layered white scars that ran up the full length of his arm. Scratches and punctures, burns and scrapes turned the skin into a ghastly patchwork - evidence admissible in court of all the hearts he'd trampled. He grinned an ugly grin, because these scars here were his _strength_ , the proof of it, of everything he'd survived up until now.

"I've done nothing but kick pokémon around since I was ten," he said. 

Finally, he was sure he'd scared this outlander away, that she'd realize their existences were incompatible. After all, her eyes were widening, and her hands covered her mouth in scandalized shock. If she were yet to speak, it would probably only be condemnation - and nothing she said could be worse than the truth.

"Does that hurt?" Rui asked.

Time halted. It took Wes several seconds to grasp what he had been asked. A dumb-sounding "hah?" escaped from his throat.

"Does that hurt?" Rui repeated, drawing close to the glass again to get a better look. "Oh my gosh, there's - there's so many! And if they're properly treated they don't leave scars, I mean - I guess Orre maybe doesn't have the best healthcare, but - since you were _ten?"_

He was dumbfounded. "Scars don't hurt," he said, lamely, in lieu of anything intelligent while his mind struggled to comprehend what this sort of reaction was trying to get at.

"But getting scars _does!_ " She said it emphatically, ignoring her own condition. "What's Cipher doing? Ten-year-olds shouldn't be getting bitten like that!"

"Cipher didn't…" Wes shook his head. "Uh, sorry. Look, I gotta get back to work."

"Wait, what's your name?"

Wes ignored her, fitting his uniform back on before turning back to the cages he was supposed to be checking. 

"Hey, stop giving me the cold shoulder and answer me!"

Come to think of it, he had no idea why this girl was even here. He'd need to get some of his people inquiring about that. She was in pretty bad shape - surely, not just some intruder they'd caught, or else they'd have already taken care of her.

"Jerk!"

Her voice rang out after him even after the doors slid shut. How absolutely disorienting...in the end, he was completely swept up by her pace. His face was almost sore from how much it had emoted in the past few minutes. And yet, it wasn't...unpleasant.

* * *

"Oi." Wes banged on the glass, and Rui jumped to attention out of her nap, eyes momentarily glassy and unfocused. When she realized who it was she'd been woken up by, she broke into an involuntary smile. Ah, she really was an idiot, huh?

"It's you!" she exclaimed, pulling herself up. "The jerk who won't tell me his name!"

"It's Wes. Stand up and press yourself against the opposite wall."

She puffed her cheeks out at him, though she did as he ordered. "All that secrecy and then you just tell me? I was planning on giving you an annoying nickname until you gave up, and now I can't use it anymore!"

As baffling as always. Wes pulled out the keycard to her cell and swiped it, typing a password into the keypad. "Yeah? And what nickname was that?"

"Well, you've got that blond hair and yellow eyes. So I was gonna call you Sunny."

He felt himself give another totally involuntary snort of amusement. Sunny, huh? He'd never heard a more ill-fitting name.

"Ah, you laughed again!"

"Yeah, yeah." He slid the door open and tossed a cardboard box onto the floor, before closing the door just as quickly, the automatic locks clanking back into place. "Snacks from the outside...stuff to make you feel human."

Her eyes lit up and she jumped toward the box like a man starved. As she ripped open the tape, she prattled on at him, a nonstop, stream-of-consciousness barrage of chatter. Wes listened half-heartedly, leaning against the opposite row of cages with his head cocked to the side.

"Wes is a cool name, I think. Reminds me of those movies from Unova, with those cowboys riding on mudbrays - you know the ones, right?"

"Not at all," Wes said. 

"Oh, hey!" Rui suddenly snapped to attention. "I just realized - why are you giving me this stuff? Like, I'm a prisoner, right? Everyone else has been really nasty about this whole thing."

Wes shrugged, playing it cool. The fact was, it was just a dumb, irrational impulse, spurred on by the fact that Rui was basically forgotten in a room that was barely monitored. At some point, Ein had notes that they might try running trials on her strange ability to see the auras of shadow pokémon, but those plans were shuffled and buried as he moved on to bigger projects, collaborating with HQ. Otherwise, her only use was as Skrub's hostage, keeping Agate village in check (apparently, she was the granddaughter of the village chief)...but the two of them hadn't ever met face-to-face. It was Miror's team that had brought her in.

"I don't want you dying on us. You're a valuable asset."

"You know what I think?" Rui said, with a smile. " _I_ think you're just secretly a nice person."

"Dead wrong."

"No no, it's fine, I get it." Despite her position as a prisoner, she gave a haughty toss of her hair. "Don't want people to know what a big ol' softy you are! But it's okay. It's a good thing, you know?"

Wes rolled his eyes. "In what world is being weak a 'good thing'?"

"Everywhere! It's how you make friends, you know? Like how we're friends now."

Once more, Wes couldn't help giving a snort of genuine amusement. "We're not friends."

"Sure, keep telling yourself that." She pulled out one of the pastries Wes had given her, looking it over with a curious expression. It was an orange disc, flat and covered with sugar. Wes himself had never really been able to afford the luxury of sweets before, but it was his umbreon and espeon's favorite snack, so...

"What's this?"

"It's a sopaipilla."

She squinted her eyes at him. He almost worried she had developed a sense of danger - some hesitation to accept food from her captor - but she assuaged those fears immediately. 

"You know that tells me nothing, right? We don't have these where I'm from."

"Ah…" Wes struggled to explain it. "Well, it's a deep-fried...I'm not really sure how we make it. It's good, though. Made out of pumkin berries."

"Pumkin?" Rui's eyes widened. "Those are super rare!"

"No they're not. Dime a dozen 'round here." 

Rui was already stuffing her face, her eyes sparkling. Every emotion she had played loud and clear. Someone who hid nothing and had nothing to hide. The first person he'd ever met who was like this.

"This is so good! Pumkin berries need to be imported where I come from. They won't grow on their own. Maybe we get them from Orre?"

Wes shrugged. "Maybe."

"Okay, and what are these?" She held up a small pack of cookies dusted in white coconut flakes.

"Alfajores."

Those also disappeared in record time.

"These are so good _too_! Wes, you _have_ to show me where you got these when I get out of here."

She was good at telling jokes. He couldn't help but smile.

"Sure."

* * *

A hissing intake of breath was the only reaction Wes gave to pain as he yanked his hand back, fresh red blood welling up in the two puncture wounds along the back of his ten-year-old hand. He glared down at the eevee that had bit him and the eevee glared back, its hackles raised and its sharp white teeth bared in an ugly snarl.

"Bastard," Wes muttered, clutching his wrist. While he didn't have room to condemn them, this was still another injury he could have avoided. 

He sighed and slumped down against the wall opposite, in his ratty hideout on the roof of a two-story parts shop. There was an easy way up to it from a hidden tunnel through the cave wall, and the railing kept it hidden from the street, and - most importantly of all - when lying down near the outer edge, he could see from this spot the tiny sliver of sky high, high above his head, surrounded on either side by black canyon walls, far, far out of his reach.

He'd messed up. He'd been so excited upon realizing Snagem was hiding their haul someplace he could access that he hadn't realized that merchandise this hot would be impossible to move. What was he supposed to do, try to pawn them off at the local fence? Everyone in the Under knew about Snagem's latest escapade. The estimated price for these eevees was millions, gazillions, bajillions - a number he couldn't count on his fingers and toes, an astronomical figure.

Rather than pawn them off, anyone Wes went to was liable to break him over their knee and take the goods for themselves. And now the sedative on the damn things had worn off, so he couldn't even ditch them somewhere and get rid of them. _Fantastic._

"I'm not happy about this either," Wes grumbled aloud, grabbing one of his worn-out blankets and flapping it at them "Shoo! Get out of here. Go be someone else's problem."

The eevee that had already woken up snarled and snapped at him, and the other struggled groggily to its feet, before collapsing with a sharp yelp of pain. Its brother's attention immediately snapped back in alarm, and even Wes paused temporarily, frozen with the fear that someone below had _heard_ , and would be coming up to investigate.

The eevee once more struggled to rise to its feet, and once more pitched over, its brother rushing to its side. The cause, now, was clear: one of its legs was swollen and couldn't bear any weight at all.

_Great._

Wes buried his head in his hands, then pulled himself to his feet. The eevee nursing its brother immediately turned to growl at him and he rolled his eyes. He was only turning to leave; they didn't need to be so cautious.

He wrapped a scrap of cloth around the bite mark on his hand, since that was damning evidence if he ever heard of it, stuffed a few dollars down the waistband of his pants, and left. He said a prayer, begging for the eevees to have disappeared by the time he returned, and set off for the local 24-hour grocer.

It stung to dip into his own savings for this, but ultimately, it was a problem he caused for himself. The lady at the counter was withered, strung-up, and tired - too tired to give him a second glance. 

As expected, the eevees were still there upon his return. Their long ears perked up at the sound of his rustling bag, and Wes ignored their immediate aggressive stances as he slumped down opposite them.

He pulled out of his bag his own dinner - a shitty boxed set for dirt cheap - and then two pieces of fresh fruit. He rolled them along the ground, and they came to a stop at the eevee's feet. 

"Chilan berries," Wes said. "The card at the store says they're from the woods in the west. They're not tasty, but they're cheap."

Could pokémon even understand human speech? Wes didn't honestly know. The only pokémon he'd ever met were almost exclusively used for battling, and almost universally hated humans, their trainers most of all. 

Whatever. If they didn't eat the damn things, Wes would. He went to work on his own meal, ignoring the two bundles of fur. Once the injured one healed up, they'd probably leave on their own, right? Wes was counting on that. This location he'd found was too good to give up.

Lost in thought, he broke out of his reverie when a small brown snout pressed against his neck. As he startled backwards, the bastard eevee snatched a piece of his dinner from out of his tray and trotted proudly back to its sibling. They'd already finished the berries, leaving the dry husks strewn about in little pieces.

"Are you kidding me?" Wes asked, exasperated. This time, the eevees ignored him, happily munching away at _his_ dinner. He heaved another long-suffering sigh, finishing his bowl and setting it aside. What was lost was lost, and he simply did not have the calories to spare getting into a fight with them over a scrap of food. He'd lose more than he could make back.

So instead, he nestled into his blankets as the cold of the desert night began to settle in. The only real dangers out here were the freezing nighttime temperatures that crept into the ravine as the sliver of sky changed from blue to red to black. Wes shut his eyes.

He'd almost drifted off when he felt a tug on his blankets, and then suddenly they were torn off his body, exposing him to the freezing cold.

"Hey!" he shouted, grabbing at the cloth. The eevee at the other end dug in its heels and yanked back, unwilling to give up an inch.

After several long seconds of this prolonged back and forth, Wes finally gave up his silence.

"You idiot, you and your brother have fur! I'll die without this thing, you hear me?"

That seemed to give the eevee some pause, and in that hesitation, Wes managed to yank his blanket away. But before he could resume his position on the cushion of discarded newspapers, pillowcases, and cloth, the eevee was back in action, this time headbutting his body toward the edge of the building.

With one last shove, it sent him stumbling forward, falling flat on his face right next to its injured sibling. Before Wes could stand up again, it parked itself right on top of him, where it turned around two times and laid down. The injured eevee gingerly dragged itself close, prodding at Wes's arm with its uninjured paw until he extended it, before sitting itself on top of him.

Like this, they pinned him down, and he was just barely able to maneuver the blanket he'd fallen on top of so it covered his legs against the cold.

"You two are assholes," he grumbled. All he got in response were two smug, pleased chirps from the monsters that ruined his life.

* * *

"Um...hey, Wes...the pokémon in these cages next to me...what happens to them when they leave and don't come back?"

"You've been here this long and you don't know?"

"No one told me! No one even talks to me besides you, except to make fun of me."

"They go to the labs to get shadowfied. Sometimes they survive, sometimes they don't."

"That's - "

"Horrible, right? You like that word."

"Are you okay with this?"

"I have to be. It's my job."

"Then why do you look like you're in pain?"

"It's your imagination."

"...Wes, hey. That shadowfication thing...they'll do it to your umbreon and espeon if you quit, right? And that's why you're still here?"

"You're only perceptive when it comes to the dumbest things…"

"Answer me."

"It's not just that. I also don't have any skills outside of crime. I'm a thief and a kidnapper, yeah? Even if I left, even if Cipher didn't start hunting me down, I wouldn't be able to do anything. I'd just wind up another kind of criminal."

"That's not true. You're nice, and you're smart, and you're really strong. I can tell. You work harder than everyone else. If you worked half as hard, I'm sure you could survive honestly. And you wouldn't be alone, since I'd help you as much as I could."

"Hah...you're really stupid, Rui."

"Why is it that the first time you say my name in all the two months we've known each other, it has to be in a sentence like that? Open this door so I can smack you!"

"No."

"Geeze...but I mean it, Wes. I really do."

"I know. That's why you're an idiot, idiot."

"Stop!"

"I-di-ot."

* * *

"I want to be clear on this with you, Wes," said Skrub. "The Agate occupation is still _my_ mission. You're backup for _me_ , so I don't want to see you trying to undermine my authority. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

But crystals in Orre, Wes thought, grew black. He watched Skrub stalk down the hallway. Shiny mister Phenacite probably didn't know that. Venus, who had been watching from behind them, gave a lilting laugh - _she_ knew what he meant.

"Do you need something from me, boss?"

She smiled a cat's smile, one just as good at hiding her true intentions as his own dour glare. The Mistress of the Under. The Brightest of the Brights. The Angel of the Dark. Wes, who rarely spoke, especially rarely spoke to her, but in the quiet glances they shared with each other, there was a camaraderie there. They had both been privy to the darkest, the deepest that Orre had to offer; she knew, as well as he did, what it was like to yearn for the sky.

"Please, my dear, 'boss' is such a rough way to call me," she purred. "Though I suppose even 'lady' or 'mistress' would sound rough when it rolls off _your_ tongue."

She drew closer and placed a hand on his cheek. Like a buyer checking out the merchandise, she looked him over with a careful gaze, turning his face this way and that in the harsh fluorescent lights. She was the only admin that would meet his eyes, and the only one he didn't turn his eyes away from - there was no point. She already knew what he was like, the same way he knew what lurked beneath her delicate skin. 

"Little boy, you don't actually want Skrub's promotion, do you?"

There was whispering among the lower ranks that a new admin position would be opening up to help facilitate the HQ branch's relocation back into Orre. Whether or not there was any truth to these rumors, Skrub was, more than ever, nipping at Wes's heels. 

"Who knows," Wes answered her. 

"Well, I feel some kinship with you," Venus said, dropping her hand. "We were both raised in the Under, after all. The other admins see Snagem first, but we know the truth, don't we?"

"Is there a truth to growing up there?" Wes asked, feigning flippancy. 

"That it's no place for a child," Venus answered, smoothly, smiling from behind her veil. "We learn some peculiar lessons in the Dark, don't we? About how much our bodies and our lives are worth."

Wes gave a bitter, knowing snort.

"Nothing at all," he said, and Venus's smile grew wider.

"Nothing at all," she echoed. "Although there is a corollary. You see, you can still gain value when someone else invests in you. I'm sure you understand what I mean."

That was cause for alarm. Investments meant someone would be looking for a payout. Investments meant he _owed._

"Is that an offer?"

Venus giggled, hiding her mouth behind her sleeve. "Unfortunately for you, it's already happened. I've got quite a bit of money riding on your survival...you understand what I mean, don't you?"

It meant there was something he needed to survive against.

It meant that the admins knew something was coming for him, and that chances were he'd be staring at the chopping block if he faltered now. His hand twitched toward the pokéballs that housed his Umbreon and Espeon.

It meant he needed Skrub's promotion.

At any cost.

"I won't disappoint," Wes said, because he couldn't afford to. 

* * *

At this stupidly late hour, there was only one person in the gym at the main base. To the point where half the lights, motion-activated, had shut off ages ago, and now the only one still on was hovering over him like a spotlight, casting deep black shadows that pooled on the ground around his feet. His hands struck the sandbag, one-two, one-two, over and over again. In a hypnotic rhythm, his taut muscles sprang toward their target, his sore hands smashing themselves against its weathered side as it creaked on the chain it dangled from.

His 'eons were asleep in a pile a few feet away from him, but Wes was training precisely because he couldn't sleep. He felt like a ghost in a sandstorm, searching, searching, searching...so his hands met the sandbag with dull, muffled thuds.

Gonzap had taught him how to throw a punch, although it hadn't mattered when it was his tiny, malnourished body against adults more than twice his size. He remembered, with a bitter humor, the monthly sparring matches that always turned into a bullying session once Wes entered the ring - he'd been gut-punched, headlocked, spat on, and pinned in a million humiliating ways. There was a reason his knuckles were already deadened to pain beyond a vague soreness, though fat lot of good that had ever done him.

In the end, sometimes there was just a difference of raw size and strength that no amount of technique could overcome. And Wes - still just a _child_ , still skinny, and short, and small, and frail - would forever be subject to that ridiculous disadvantage.

Weak! He was so weak, weak, weak! Being led around by a choke chain, his nose pressed up against the grindstone - but nothing, nothing had changed at all.

He could see it in the eyes of the peons under Skrub's direct command - how many times had he faced down a pokémon three times his size, eyeing him up and down like he was easy prey? Always the pickings, never the pick.

To fight, to _win_ , he needed to be so much stronger than this. Strong enough to kill his pity, his mercy, his kindness, his weakness. Because Ein was right; he was _softhearted_ , weak-willed. It was evident in his hesitation to do what he needed to do.

He needed to _ruin_ Skrub. He needed to _destroy_ him. There was no way to gun for his position without dragging him down. Him and everyone standing with him.

Wes wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, a short reprieve to catch his breath before he launched himself at the sandbag again, more viciously than before.

He knew what needed to be done. To protect the things he needed to protect, Skrub had to leave the picture. It was open-and-shut.

That he hesitated only showed how much there was in him that he still had yet to kill. That prisoner's face flashed in his mind and he bit his lip, drawing blood as the recoil from a connected hit broke his sharp teeth through the skin. How foolish, and softhearted, and weak he was. 

Once he worked up his resolve - once he had steeled his heart for what it was he needed to do - then the brightness in her eyes would never again alight on him. Wasn't it stupid how that was one of his misgivings? Even he thought so. That her opinion had mattered to him - that she'd wormed her way in - was a sign of how porous and unforgivable his own heart was.

* * *

"Hey, Vana. Did you hear about the rumor?"

Lesar set his tray down next to his fellow peon's in the secret lab's cantina. Lare, another peon, was already sitting across the table, her helmet at her side. She rolled her eyes at his question.

"Please be more specific, Lesar. We've literally got a whole industry of rumor-sellers in this goddamn region."

"Yeah, yeah," Lesar responded with a flippant wave of his hand. "I wasn't talking to you anyway. What I mean is, _Vana_ , did you hear about the rumor that Wes is seriously gunning for the admin promotion?"

"I did hear about that, actually," Vana said, playing with her fork. "Apparently, he's been cashing in favors left and right. Can't think of what else that'd be for...I heard Coren down in R&D is starting a betting pool."

"Oh, is he?" Lesar grinned - he was always up for some extra fun to be had at his boss's expense. "What are the odds like?"

"It's about ten to one in Skrub's favor right now," Lare replied, coolly. She liked to play haughty, as she hailed from Phenac and all, but in the end she was just as much a peon as the rest of them. "Although, if you ask me, the smart money's on Wes."

"You only think that way 'cause you're into little boys," Lesar muttered, purposefully loud enough for Lare to hear. She gave him a glare over her cantina food, although that much wasn't enough for her to rise to his bait.

"Skrub's got the experience," Lesar pointed out. "And he's been working for Cipher a long time. When you think he's up against some punk kid, it's pretty hard to bet against him."

Vana fidgeted in her seat. "I'm throwing my money in with Wes," she finally said, after a lengthy deliberation. "I mean - nevermind. My reason's stupid."

"Vana," Lare reassured her, "between the three of us, you've got the best track record. Just go ahead and say it. I could use the validation."

"I'm also interested in hearing it," Lesar volunteered, and Vana sighed, outvoted.

"He's - scarier than Skrub is."

The two of them waited for more, but none came. 

"That's it?" Lare prompted. Vana nodded.

"Yeah. Don't you think so? What's _your_ reason?"

Lare set her fork down, giving herself time to think. "It was gut instinct, mostly. But if you ask me to justify it...then I'd have to say, he's got a faster growth rate than Skrub. He joined less than a year ago, but he's already on Skrub's level. It's a little bit - "

"Scary," Vana finished for her. 

"You know who Wes reminds me of?" Lesar asked, suddenly. "Nascour."

Lare immediately recoiled. "Please refrain from saying his name. I worry you might summon him."

"Nascour Nascour Nascour," Lesar repeated. "It's fine. He's at the Realgam site right now. The point is, doesn't Wes remind you of him? That heartstone-poisoned freak?"

"...Let's talk about something else," Vana said, changing the topic away. "I know you were raised near the port, so you probably don't know, Lesar, but it's _really_ bad luck to talk about...the _poisoned_ like that."

* * *

In the dead of Agate night, next to the sound of running water, inside the village elder's home, Wes dropped onto the table a black choker with a moon pendant, the cheap plastic stained with blood.

The wife - Beluh, the files said - blanched entirely, her hands going to her mouth the same way Rui's would. The husband, Eagun, flung himself across the table to pull Wes forward by the mantle of his cloak.

"You - you bastards! You promised she'd be safe as long as we complied - "

"And you actually believed us?" Wes asked, coldly. The old man was trembling, and briefly Wes worried he'd keel over from a heart attack before they could finish their transaction, so he pried one of the man's hands away by the wrist and glared. "Calm down. I have a proposal for you."

"We have nothing to discuss with the likes of you."

Wes snorted. "Sure you do. For one thing, revenge. The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

The old man gave him a suspicious glare, but slowly settled into his seat, placing a hand on his wife's trembling shoulder. Both of them were bone-white. He'd heard that Eagun, the old man, had been a top-notch, world-famous ace trainer back in his prime. He'd come to Orre chasing rumors of strong, unconventional battles, fallen in love, and settled in. A sickly-sweet story, exactly the kind he'd expected Rui to spawn from...but what sat in front of him now was a pathetically weak old man, brought to his knees by little more than a scrap of cloth.

"Skrub was the one who was holding your granddaughter hostage," Wes said, indifferently. "His people were the ones who ordered her to be disposed. I want him gone, and you want him to pay."

"You could have stopped it."

"Not without putting my own neck on the line." So far, nothing he'd said had been a lie. "You already know who to blame, so don't get mad at me when I'm offering you a chance to take back the village."

Beluh shivered, and immediately Eagun was worrying over her, while Wes looked on. The familiar, sick feeling of trampling over others that had harangued him so often while he was at Snagem had once more settled around his shoulders, and, as if feeding off it, he felt his poker face was so much more impenetrable than usual tonight.

"I can get you a shipment of pokémon," Wes continued. And he could - all his experience with Snagem had taught him how to move them quickly, discreetly, and efficiently. He knew all the best sources, all the secret routes, all the smuggling tricks. "But you'll have to rely on your own skill to make use of them."

Eagun turned to him once more with a heated glare. 

"Dear," Beluh warned, in a soft, shaky voice.

Eagun soothed her. "Yes, I know. We decline. You and your lot are treacherous scum, all of you; we'll fight our own way through, without your help."

"Like that worked so well for you and your _granddaughter,_ " Wes snorted, with an ugly grin. A provocation - and Eagun fell for it.

"Leave, get out of my house; get out of my village!"

"Sure," Wes said, leaning back further into his seat. "If you can make me."

It happened quickly. And it was easy...a comfortable, familiar rhythm. Wes wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all - how only something like this could go off without a hitch for him, how his luck was only good when he acted as bad as bad came.

Eagun pulled out his beloved Pikachu, which had been with him for even longer than his granddaughter had, and Umbreon and Espeon - trained thieves, just like their owner - leapt out from their hiding places, right on cue. In the resulting confusion, Wes pulled aside the cloak he was wearing, the blue paint and red wiring of the snag machine glinting in the artificial fluorescent lights.

It took only an instant - took less than an hour - and he had deprived Eagun of everything.

He held the snag ball in his hand, his 'eons curling around his legs, as Eagun tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Wes was sure he was grinning; he could feel it gleaming in the light, griseous and cold. 

"Now you don't have a choice."

Eagun stared, at a loss for words. That was fine. He didn't need to speak...he only needed to do as he was told. 

"I'm better for my word than Skrub," Wes said. "Take the village back from him...give it to me, and I give you back the 'mon. The shipment comes in three days. One of the villagers has the instructions."

He turned to leave. Even if he wanted to look back, he couldn't - the only path left for him was forwards, ever forwards, no matter how much that path felt like walking barefoot on broken glass.

"Don't die before the reunion, old man."

Those were the only kind words he could offer. Behind him, he heard Eagun break into tears.

* * *

"That portable snag machine's such a piece of shit," Driton grumbled over a bottle of beer in the mess hall of the Snagem base. "Why the hell's the damn thing left-handed? It's already hard enough to aim in a double battle!"

Fuston gave a loud, bitter laugh. "You _know_ why it's left-handed. It's because Boss's pet is a southpaw!"

"Not like you could hit the broad side of a barn even if it _was_ right-handed," Niver chimed in. "You can barely hit a stationary target from five paces away."

"Take that back, bastard. Damn snag balls are hard to use! I swear to god they work less than regular ones do - "

"Here we go again," Fuston said, rolling his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of bragging 'bout the five years you spent living in Hoenn?"

Driton swung at him with a rowdy punch. "Hey, it's relevant! _You_ wouldn't know, growing up in this godforsaken desert without any wild pokémon, but turning it into a snag ball drops the damn thing's chances by twenty percent. Of course the rest of us can't measure up to Boss's pet. He's got the devil's luck, I tell ya."

"Maybe he _is_ the devil's kid," Fuston laughed. "Son of a whore, a southpaw too, and he's even got those grim-reaper gold eyes. Hey, next time we see him, let's throw salt at him, see if he burns!"

* * *

Dakim found Wes perched on a desert rock a few miles out from Mount Battle, one leg swaying in the breeze as his 'eons curled around him. Dakim had never liked the boy - disliked anything he couldn't read, and once more the boy's actions were incomprehensible. He stared out at the horizon even as Dakim approached, like he was gazing at something utterly beautiful out in the distance, when all there was was sand and rocks and rocks and sand.

"Wes. We've lost control of the situation in Agate."

Finally, Wes turned those yellow eyes on him, no change in his expression at all. If he was surprised...or if, as Dakim feared, he had been expecting it...there was no indication either way.

"I'm off today," was all Wes said. Dakim growled.

"This is an emergency situation. As your superior, I'm ordering you back into the field."

Wes blinked slowly at him - a challenge. Deliberately wasting his time.

"The one who approved my request," Wes said, "was Master Nascour."

The name dropped like a block of ice. Dakim took a step back, his hands curling into fists. To order Wes off his break now would be to go directly against Nascour's orders. Knowing that, Wes had gone above the admin's heads to make the deal.

"You...what did you say to Master Nascour, to get him to grant such a ridiculous request?"

The grin Wes gave him was chilling in how utterly it lacked any kind of humor or warmth.

"That I'd show him something interesting," Wes answered. "This is as far as Skrub goes. I hope you don't have money on him...boss."

That was all he needed to hear. That meant that all of this - the disposal of a prisoner under Skrub's control, the highly-trained pokémon that appeared in the village out of nowhere, even down to being untouchably absent on his day off - was merely going according to plan. It was unthinkable. It was unacceptable.

"You can't seriously be gambling our control over the region for the sake of a _promotion_!"

"I don't gamble," Wes replied. "I _win."_

* * *

He stretched his arms up so his hands framed the sliver of stars that peeked out from behind two walls of solid black canyon rock.

"That, up there, that's called the sky," Wes said, to the eevees at his sides. "You two have been up there, right? You've seen it?"

Two noncommittal grunts answered his question, and he sighed, dropping his arms back down onto their soft brown fur.

"I haven't seen it. Not the whole thing, anyway. My mom used to tell me it was a big dome, full of clouds and stars, in every direction. And where it touches the ground, that's called the 'horizon.'"

She had so many stories about the sky. About a giant snake that wound around far higher than the highest clouds, so far away it couldn't be seen. About Ho-Oh, one of the guardian gods of Orre, and its rainbow feathers that sparkled in the sunlight. About how the sun and moon actually walked across the sky, and how the moon could follow you no matter how fast you ran. And, most captivating to him of all, about the horizon - the mystical meeting point between heaven and earth, which no one had ever managed to reach. He was sure, with the conviction only a ten-year-old could have, that he, too, would be able to fly, if only he ran fast enough - too fast for the moon to keep time - if only he could be the first to arrive at that faraway place.

"I'm going to go there someday," he told the eevees at his side. "Do you want to come with me?"

They snuggled into him, an affirmative if he ever heard one. He smiled, feeling warm even in the frozen desert air.

"Yeah. I'll take you. One day."

* * *

Once Dakim had left, Wes turned his gaze back to the horizon, dreaming of places out of reach with his eyes wide open.

* * *

The rebellion had been quashed the moment Wes arrived on the scene. He showed up late that evening, after the fighting had run its course, after Skrub and his people had been pushed back to the river that demarcated the outside edge of town. Not as Skrub's subordinate, not on the orders of one of the admins. He simply walked up to Eagun, indicating with a nod that the farce was over, and Eagun gave the order to surrender.

Naturally, Eagun was not the only one being held in check during today's fake rebellion. Wes had, after all, delivered them some powerful pokémon, and it would have all been for naught if they had turned on him with those in hand and genuinely won their independence back. It was only with the understanding that the lives of their precious family members were at stake that they were so easily willing to surrender.

Once the insurgent's pokémon were rounded up, once the appropriate grandstanding was performed, later that night when no one was around to see it, Wes passed a pokéball back into Eagun's hands.

They didn't exchange words. The hatred that spilled out of Eagun's glare told him all he needed to know.

The next day was judgement day. Wes arrived five minutes early, second to a Skrub that looked like he could have been there all night - there were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was covered with a pale sheen of sweat. No doubt he had lost sleep trying to find some, _any_ incriminating evidence against Wes to prove that Wes had been behind all this. Naturally, there was none to be had. Wes didn't get where he was today from sloppy work.

As Wes had no interest in kicking the doomed around for fun, he ignored Skrub's hate-filled glares as he stood with his hands folded behind his back, staring at the door. 

It slid open at nine o'clock on the dot, the admins filing in one at a time with their own poker faces smoothly in place. Even as Skrub tried to glean meaning from their unreadable expressions, Wes remained calm, with his head held up high.

Finally, Master Nascour arrived.

He walked slowly and with purpose. Every step was heavy and echoed in the metal-lined halls. His cruel features, which were sharp and jagged and looked carved out of stone, were punctuated by his frigid, cold eyes.

It was clear from his presence alone that there was something supremely _wrong_ with him. It wasn't just that his features were inhuman and off - his skin was drawn and looked drained of blood; his sclera was black and his irises a deep red - but that his gaze, too, was alien and disaffected, that the temperature dropped when he entered the room.

Something like the chill of night, Wes thought, as he and Skrub bowed their heads. Nascour was akin to such a constant, looming, fatal threat.

First he turned his attention on Wes, giving him a smile without any emotion behind it at all.

"Welcome back, Wes," he said, in a soft, measured voice. "How was your day off?"

That was permission to raise his head, so he drew back to his full height, meeting Nascour's chilly gaze. 

"It was fine while it lasted, but I cut it short because something came up."

"I see." 

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to Skrub, standing at Wes's side.

"Skrub."

"Y...yes, Master Nascour."

Another cold, emotionless smile. "Is there anything you'd like to say in your own defense?"

Skrub's head snapped up to attention, his expression frantic. "I - I was set up," he stammered out, inelegantly tripping over his own words. "Wes engineered the whole thing, he - he's a traitor!"

"Fufufu...what a bold claim. Do you have any evidence to back it up?"

"Well, I - I don't...n-no." He stared down at the floor. "No, sir."

"Is that so." 

Nascour seemed amused, if anything. He looked Skrub over top to bottom, before once more turning his attention back to Wes. 

"And do you have anything to say to such a weighty indictment, Wes?"

"No." Of course not.

A cold silence settled over the room as Nascour deliberated with himself over what to do. The admins, still wearing their respective masks, did not dare to do anything more than look on. Wes, also, did not feel any need to contribute, leaving Skrub to fidget alone. This was nothing more or less than his public execution.

"Wes," Nascour finally said.

"Yes, boss."

"Tell me, in one sentence, why you deserve this promotion over your competition."

Wes closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have to look at the pathetic, searching expression on Skrub's face a moment longer. He didn't have any pity to spare. This could only have ended one way.

"I'm better at his job than he is."

* * *

"Of the bloody tales that constitute the region's founding, none are more pervasive, and yet more thoroughly feared, than those that speak of the 'poisoned.'

"The very mention of these individuals is considered a hex or jinx, and it is rarely that a local from any of the old mining towns can be persuaded to tell the story in anything more than a hushed whisper.

"In short, the format is as follows: first, a miner encounters some hardship or string of misfortunes; then, they meet a vengeful spirit that possesses them, and finally, the 'poisoned' miner commits some horrible atrocity. Examples include deliberately collapsing tunnels with people still inside, running an excavation vehicle through a populated compound, _etc._ The story then ends with the spirit leaving the miner's body, usually after the miner's death, promising to target the listener next.

"It's believed that parts of this story were co-opted from legends passed down in indigenous tribes through oral tradition, but records of the original fables are practically nonexistent, and the tribes themselves were scattered and displaced as soon as the gold rush began. What records remain are from secondary sources - diaries, journals - many of which were lost or destroyed in the riots that followed the gold rush's end.

"We may never truly know what the origin of the 'poisoned' is..."

\- _Wailing Sands: Stories from the Orrean Desert_


	4. Big fish in a small pond.

The first time Rui had ever laid eyes on Wes, she thought that he was lost. Not physically - he was wearing the Cipher uniform, a set of full-body armor and a scarf, his helmet under his arm, checking items off a clipboard as he inspected the cages - but in a metaphysical sense. He seemed dull and far-away. Somehow, she felt as though there was something very wrong with him being here, as if he was the one behind a bulletproof lock and not her.

The other grunts who came by this way, and the lab technicians, too - they banged on the glass, they laughed at the pokémon, they taunted or ignored her. The janitor who brought her food just pretended not to see her, no matter how much she called after him, roughly shoving her meal through a little flap in the door - tasteless, cheap rations that she could only choke down because she was starving. 

What had gotten her into this mess was her fat mouth blabbing about weird, black auras she could see around the pokémon Cipher used. It bubbled out of them like they were weeping, staining their hearts and souls. If it was enough to get her detained here, then surely she wasn't insane - although it felt like she was edging closer with every passing day. She was on the cusp of losing her mind when he walked in.

For a moment, under the blinding lights, he seemed to flash with gold. Rui blinked, and it was gone, and she was left wondering what exactly that could have been. Like there was gold strings tied in his hair, gold dust that flaked off him when he walked. And when he turned around she was surprised to see his eyes were gold, too. Maybe the rest of it had been a trick of the light?

Reaching for that golden glimmer, she called out to him.

"Hey…"

* * *

Rui awoke to the sound of crashing waves and the sun seeping through the blinds. 

Her head was pounding and her throat was dry. As she pulled herself up off the mattress, sticky and groggy and squinting against the harsh sunlight, she realized for the first time that she was squinting into _sunlight_ and not harsh fluorescent.

That was cause for alarm. Forcing herself onto wobbly feet, she took a wild look around at her new surroundings. Was she in...a motel room? There was the ratty single bed that she'd been unceremoniously dumped on, a carpet with unidentifiable stains, an ashtray on the nightstand and the lingering stink of tobacco smoke (anti-smoking laws had yet to catch up with Orre, Rui had found), and a grungy window with slatted blinds.

The last thing she remembered was armed thugs entering her cell and holding her down. Though she kicked and screamed and tried to bite through their armor, she was outnumbered and outmatched. If the drug that was injected into her was some kind of tranquilizer, it'd make sense that she was so out of it now. Though she was definitely bruised from that struggle, otherwise her body seemed to be in proper working order. She took a deep breath to steady herself and set to work trying to grasp her current situation.

First: where was she? She dragged her heavy, leaden body to the window, peeking through the dirty blinds. Over the grimy rooftops of the other buildings, she could make out a horizon of blue meeting blue - the ocean.

The ocean? What was she doing here? She was starved, thirsty, had a pounding headache, and despite being unconscious for who-knows-how-long, she was also tired down to her bones.

A bag on the table across from the bed caught her eye. It was a leather rucksack that certainly wasn't hers; cautiously, she opened the buckle clasping it shut and began rifling through it.

In it were a cheap change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a plastic water bottle, and a couple small travel bottles of shampoo and soap. Glancing around and finding no evidence that someone was sharing the room with her, Rui immediately cracked open the water bottle's seal and began gulping it down. 

At the very bottom of the bag was an envelope. "RUI" was written in crude, capital letters on the back. Okay, so the water bottle WAS meant for her. Good. She was already almost finished with it.

Carefully, she pulled open the top of the envelope, shaking the contents out onto the table, and her eyes widened in surprise. Inside were several hundred dollars, her Kanto ID, and a ticket for a boat ride to the nearest league-affiliated region.

There was no note, but the ticket had on it, in the same crude letters, three words written in ballpoint pen.

"GET OUT. 

\- SUNNY"

She traced the indents left in the paper, as if it were written in disappearing ink and all of it would vanish if she didn't confirm right here and now its solidity. Even through this limited message, she could hear the grumpy-bear inflection in his voice, the pout on his face.

Wes had freed her. After all that grandstanding about not being able to risk his job, he'd still arranged for her to be standing alone in a motel room at the port, only a short walk away from escape.

"You really are a good guy," she mumbled to the slip of paper. That was something she was sure about. The flavor of the sweets he'd shared with her lingered on her tongue for hours after every meeting. 

Even if he didn't think anything of it, those words - "to make you feel human" - had saved her. Trapped in her cell, surrounded by the pained cries of pokémon, she really had been losing her sense of humanity. A few more months of that kind of despair...and where would she be? In that sense, she could never thank Wes enough.

But the more she thought about it, the more concerning it was that she was standing here, now, _alone._ She'd invited Wes to escape with her enough times that she'd have thought, if he was trying to leave the company, he'd have been here alongside her. Did that mean he was still working for Cipher? ...And, if so, why would he do something as risky as letting her go?

All that thinking was giving her a headache again. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and cleared her mind.

Right now, her friend was still being forced to commit evils he didn't want to do. Cipher was still running amok with shadow pokémon, and worse still, she had no idea how her grandpa and grandma in Agate were doing. 

With that in mind, she slipped the boat ticket back into the envelope.

There were still things she needed to do here; she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she went back home so empty-handed. So the first order of business…? A shower. Then brushing her teeth. Then maybe seeing if she could find a place that sold sopaipillas. And then...well, she'd figure it out as she went. 

Surely, the world was much bigger and brighter than Wes had ever known. One day soon, she'd help him see that, too.

* * *

Pyrite, the town of earth, wind, and money. The town of rusted steel buildings with sand caught in their automatic doors, of bright, gaudy paint that would be stripped away and reapplied, stripped away and reapplied. The town of wind farms made of repurposed windmills, of the constant noise of pokémon battles by those who could afford such a luxury, of relentless sun, snow that would blow in from the mountains, and rain only once a decade.

Silva remembered playing on the streets as a young boy, on the cracked black asphalt and concrete that, even back then, was beginning to crumble into dust, more sand for the sandstorms that regularly plagued the area. He remembered the switch to hovertech, remembered the big, rumbling diesel trucks that had come before it. He remembered the day of the railroad's closure, the bittersweet taste of losing the tracks to the sand. He still owned, tucked away in a corner of his room, a map that had the criss-crossed routes proudly printed in fading ink, a relic of a bygone era. It was incredible to him that, in this region where the trains and mines and even whole cities had dried up and withered away, there were yet still people stubbornly holding fast against the blistering winds. 

There was a saying - "when you're free in Orre, you're freer than anywhere else." It was a rough encapsulation of Orre's lawless nature. Anything went, and anything was possible. Pyrite, after all, had about two police for the entire city, neither of which were competent by any metric of the word. 

But it meant the opposite was also true: that if you were chained down in Orre, the bonds that lashed you were thicker and sturdier than anywhere else. And Silva was chained to Orre, because, despite everything, he loved the city that had raised him.

Pyrite was the largest and oldest settlement in Orre still standing. Duking, a man with no official position but who was more or less Pyrite's acting mayor and Silva's mentor, had taught him the region's bloody history.

One hundred years ago, someone struck gold in the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the sand. And in the mad grab for more, miners were paid to flock to the region - they took over the oases that the natives had used as stops on their nomadic desert routes, forcing them to scatter, and upon those few fertile sites, massive cities were constructed. Within ten years, the region's population doubled; within twenty, it quintupled.

And then the mines ran dry.

About fifty years ago, the gold veins gave out. And then the massive mining corporations, who had sponsored the arrival of so many people, whose support had kept the mining towns operational even after their oases had become empty basins of sand, pulled their funding overnight. Overnight, a little more than a million people were stranded in the world's driest desert. 

Pyrite was not always called Pyrite. Aurumstead, that was its old name, which could still be found scratched out where it was imprinted into old slats of steel. "Gold place." Its new name was born out of the blood of the riots, a spit in the face of the greed that had brought the miners here, the callousness that had left them to die. 

Nearby Goldstoke became Chalcotown. Guldthorpe became Mica. A dozen, two dozen more cities like this had been lost to the howling desert winds, surviving now only as names on maps that still printed the railroad tracks, as eerie ruins peeking up over the dunes, filled with unnamed, unclaimed mummies who would never receive their floral rites.

And despite this all, Pyrite was still standing. Even as Cipher was choking the life from its lungs, Pyrite was yet still standing.

Silva loved this city. He loved the people in it, rough as they were. He loved Orre's freedom, even if it was stained by filth and blood. And he loved even the harsh and callous nature of this world, even he hated his own powerless in the face of the shadow being cast over the land.

As Silva was fitfully spending a night in the city jail, apprehended for stealing the windmill's main involute gear (he had hoped the shutdown of the city's electricity would stopper Cipher's plans), Secc - a child with brown hair and a friend to Duking's daughters - had approached him with a grand design. It was called the Kid's Grid, a network across the region, the only resistance Orre had left. The children were the only ones capable of pulling it off because the adults had too much to lose, had grown too old and weary and weather-worn. In the Kid's Grid, Silva saw _hope_. He saw his own foolhardy eyes staring back at him.

Secc sprang him from his cell, and the two disappeared into a Kid's Grid base built into one of the million hidden caves that dotted the region. 

A couple months later, Silva had dyed his bleached hair black and had infiltrated Cipher as a low-rank peon working in Ein's division. He was still, in the end, a powerless man, but he was now part of something bigger. 

Because the blood of rioters ran in his veins. The blood of the brave idiots who had come out all this way into the inhospitable desert. Earth, wind, and money.

"As long as there's something to fight for, we'll fight for it," Secc had told him, fire in his eyes. 

And there was something to fight for, in this desert that the outside world had cast away. There always had been. 

* * *

"You're a hard man to track down, Gonzap."

In a shady bar tucked away in the docks of Io, Gonzap had been enjoying a scotch on the rocks. Enjoying may have been too strong a word. Rather, Gonzap had been drowning in one.

"If a punk like you could do it," Gonzap said, noting the high, young pitch of the person sitting across from him, "then I'm losing my touch."

He downed the last of his glass and banged it against the table. No, he lost his touch a long time ago. When was it that he'd gotten so fat and happy that he hadn't noticed his treasure hoard rotting? Years ago, probably. He'd had a lot of time to reflect.

"I'm with the Kid's Grid," said the person opposite. 

"A recruitment call, huh?" There was only one reason _they_ would have approached him. "Sorry, I ain't interested. You brats should go invite some playmates your own age."

"Wait," the other person said, leaning in. Hastily, Gonzap thought. There was an instinct in him to cuff the kid on the head and give him a short lecture on keeping cool under duress. He regretted that impulse as quick as it came. The Kid's Grid Network Node continued, speaking fast. 

"Don't you want revenge?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?" Gonzap snorted. "If you were good enough to track me down, then you're good enough to know why I'm in this sorry state in the first place."

"What we heard was that Wes, one of your subordinates, turned on your team on Cipher's orders and cleaned you out."

The glass shattered in Gonzap's hand, the network node startling in his seat. 

"Don't you say that name," Gonzap threatened, quietly. "I never want to hear that name outta your mouth again."

"S-so...you do hold a grudge."

Ah...he really did have a soft spot for kids, or maybe he really had lost his touch, or else this guy would have already gotten a fist in the jaw. Instead, Gonzap forced his fingers to uncurl, popping the too-taut knuckles, taking a deep breath in and out.

"Wes was like a son to me," Gonzap said. "He had no one. He _was_ no one, when I took him in. I raised him by hand. For _seven years,_ I taught him everything I knew!"

He took another deep breath and let it out, his voice quiet again when he continued. "So let me ask you: could I possibly hold a _grudge_ ? Against my own _son_?"

His right hand was bleeding. He sighed and grabbed a napkin from the holder and began wiping it off.

"Of course I can." He gave a laugh. "Where do you think Wes got it from?"

He held his bloodied hand out across the table, daring the network node to shake it. The child across from him hesitated (Wes wouldn't; Gonzap had taught him better) before finally, with a grip that had no strength, he grasped on.

Ah, Wes. Gonzap was less confident than he’d have liked in his chances in a rematch. In all the years he’d known the kid, the one thing he’d never seen him do was give up. No matter how far out of his reach Gonzap dangled the prize, no matter how much he was goaded and demeaned and beaten down, he just kept chasing, chasing, chasing - until finally, his little fangs were not so little anymore, and they had reached Gonzap’s throat and torn it out. 

There wouldn’t be a third time. Of that, Gonzap was sure. 

“I’m in,” Gonzap said, grinning wide. “And I’ll have all my boys join in the fun.”

* * *

"Once upon a time, Wes, the desert was green. Lush, and green, and beautiful…"

* * *

Agate was so verdant that Silva thought he might cry the first time he laid eyes on it. 

Everywhere he looked was green. Green moss, green trees, green grass growing lush and wild. It was impossible; it was beautiful. It was more than he could have ever imagined, growing up in the dusty streets of Pyrite.

Hordel, his senior in Wes's division, patted him on the shoulder, his freckles peeking out from under the visor of his helmet. "Welcome to Agate," he said, "Orre's number one retirement destination. It's nice, huh?"

"Yeah," Silva said, forcing himself to stop gaping. "Man, I can't believe I was lucky enough to transfer in."

Hordel laughed. "Believe it or not, your competition ain't stiff."

"What, really?" 

"Yeah. Cuz after all, there ain't no opportunities for career advancement here. Not when our boss is...you know, _that."_

Wes. Silva had only seen him once before, having made a rare appearance for a mandatory staff meeting. He'd only glanced in Silva's direction, and it was enough to make his hair stand on end. There was an enormous amount of animosity in those eyes, and if it were up to Silva he'd have spent the rest of his career far, far away from that admin in particular.

But Wes was in charge of Agate, a town that was so vital to Cipher's plans that all information to and fro was on total lockdown. The Under was the only other city in the region that came close to the iron grip on Agate, and the Kid's Grid already knew why - control over the Under meant control over the subways, the only surefire method of mass transport and communication left in the region. It meant control over the region's crime, over the flow of information. It was control over the mines and the secrets they held. Truly, if Cipher lost the Under, they may as well have lost Orre.

So what was it about Agate that warranted such a similar kind of throttling? It was to discover this secret, to establish a line of contact, for which Silva was braving Wes's frigid gaze.

The people of Agate - almost exclusively retirees and their grandchildren - gave them dirty glares wherever they went. Hordel explained that the last time a peon tried to pick a fight with the villagers, Wes had beaten them half to death and left them for the villagers to finish off (they didn't, but the sentiment remained); it was said that he'd done the same to a villager the last time one of _them_ had instigated. As a result, despite the dirty looks, neither side so much as spoke to each other. It'd be a challenge, for sure, to establish a line of communication in this atmosphere...Silva clenched his fist. He'd find a way or die trying. He had to.

"Hey, is it true Wes can tell us apart even with our helmets on?" Silva asked. "And that he knows us all by name?" This had been a rumor he'd heard around the cantina at the desert lab; he hadn't believed it at the time, because even _he_ couldn't do that much.

"Oh, yeah, and believe me, it's _terrifying,"_ Hordel laughed. "We have a set of _twins_ in our division and I've never seen him get them wrong."

"Freaky. How does he do it?"

"We think he does it by scent," Hordel said, tapping his nose. "Like a feral pokémon. I mean, all things said and done, he's a good boss. Doesn't shirk his job, clear instructions, doesn't bother us on our days off. It's not so bad working here once you get used to it."

"Yeah," Silva said, nodding. "I guess I'm glad about that."

* * *

"Message from Silva," Nett said, pulling his glasses on as he kicked away from his laptop screen. "Infiltration of Agate successful."

In the back of the bunker was the Kid's Grid's current greatest asset, someone who had galvanized them when they were about to lose hope, whose indomitable, burning spirit made it seem as though they were capable of anything. The calm in the storm, beacon at port. Nett, who had moved to the Under from Io Port, after the railroads closed, couldn't help but think of her in such terms.

"Any word on my grandparents?" she asked, her bright blue eyes sparkling.

"Not yet," Nett said, "but Silva basically just got there. Give him a couple weeks."

"Right..." She gave a sigh, then slapped her cheeks, back to her normal, fierce self within seconds. "Okay. What's the situation in the Kabla Mountains?"

"Still no news...looks like Dakim's got them in stalemate."

The Kabla Mountain Range to the north had been targeted by Cipher because they had ties to Agate, although no one was clear exactly how. After an initially successful raid, the indigenous peoples that owned and operated Mt. Battle retaliated, converting the upper altitudes into an impenetrable fortress. 

They were some of the Kid's Grid's most vocal supporters, but because of Dakim's efforts, communication with them was spotty, and the Kid's Grid lacked the firepower to overturn the gridlock.

Rui nodded thoughtfully. "Gonzap and Team Snagem will be joining up with us soon."

"I don't really trust them, though..."

"We have to believe in them," Rui said, firmly. "We have to believe in each other, or we've got nothing left."

She paused for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed and her legs crossed. Hesitantly, she spoke again.

"Um...any news on Wes?"

"The admin?"

"Yeah." 

About a year ago, she'd joined the Kid's Grid, claiming that Wes had freed her. Frankly, Nett and Secc thought it was impossible, that it had been some peon that had taken pity on her instead. That if she thought her captor feeding her some cheap pastries was an act of salvation, then she had a few screws loose. Especially not _that_ Wes...Snagem's pet monster, now Cipher's ill omen.

"No news on him either," Nett said. "But I'm sure Silva will have a report for us soon."

"I know you think I'm nuts," Rui sighed. "But I'm sure if we could just talk to him…"

"Yeah," Nett said, because he knew better than to argue. "I really hope you're right, Rui."

* * *

A short walk away from their Agate base was a cliff, a sheer drop into jagged tree branches and hard earth below, which looked out eastward toward the desert, all the way to where the sand met the sky. Silva came out this way to de-stress sometimes, to wrack his brain for ways to earn the villagers' trust so that he could carry out the mission he'd been sent here for.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice his admin joining him until he was ready to leave, the sight of that bleached-blond hair and golden eyes so startling that it froze him in place right as he was about to push himself back onto his feet.

Wes wasn't even looking his way - he was staring out toward the east, toward the desert. He didn't appear to have any intention of speaking, or even of moving - after five agonizing minutes of silence, Silva finally broke and said the first words.

"It's, uh, kind of chilly out today, huh?"

Wes's eyes flicked over in his direction, and then back across the sand. The peons liked to gossip that Wes was emotionless, and it was even more terrifying up close - he betrayed nothing on his smooth expression.

"Sure," he said.

"And the view's nice."

"Uh-huh." He snorted, his lip curling up the same way as a sneer. "You don't have to talk to me. I come out here every day; you just happened to be here."

"Every day?" Silva parroted. "What do you do up here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Was that a trick question? "Uh...sitting. Staring out at the desert...sir."

"Mhm."

Silva furrowed his brow. He turned to look at whatever it was Wes was looking at, but there wasn't anything out there that could possibly captivate someone enough that they had to come out here every _day_.

"What's out there that's so interesting?"

"What do _you_ see?" Wes asked, his voice flat and dull. Silva couldn't shake the feeling that Wes was fucking with him, somehow, as he struggled to answer.

"The desert. Clouds?"

"Yep. Sand and sky."

"Is that _metaphorical_ sand and sky, or…"

Wes snorted again. "Do I look like someone who sits around and makes up metaphors?"

Admittedly, no.

"There's sand out there. There's sky out there. I come this way to look at 'em every day." 

Silva leaned back on his arms. Wes wasn't giving him a real answer, but Silva knew better than to push.

"Sorry, sir. I don't really get it."

"Means there's still hope for you," Wes said, without turning to look at him. He just kept staring off into the desert, as if he'd find some kind of answer there.

He was, this close-up, so _young_ . At least five years younger than Silva was, based on the age he heard from cantina gossip. Worse still, he was small for his age, his body thin under his jacket, so skinny he looked like he might break. Despite his youth, he felt so _worn_ , weathered and old, his skin stretched tight over his jutting bones. And his eyes...this close up, they really were a brilliant shade of yellow.

Silva swallowed thickly, wondering if he was about to make a mistake.

"Sir, um...are you a native?"

Wes glanced at him. "Why are you asking?"

Gold eyes and gold-streaked hair. Silva had seen them only once before, the people of the funeral town of Appoak. He'd been ten, eleven at the time, as he watched his father's body disappear into the sands. Burned into his memories were the Appoacian's somber figures. As he'd wept, one of them kneeled down to him, despite his mother's protests, and drawn him into a hug. The way their hair had glittered in the sunlight had left an impression in his heart. 

"I'm just...curious. It's a common rumor - "

"If I say yes," Wes interrupted, "then what? Is this division cursed? Am I more likely to tear your throat out?"

Silva flinched, his heart racing. "I'm sorry, sir."

Wes just turned his attention back at the desert, saying nothing more. Was he offended? It was impossible to tell; even so, Silva found he just couldn't leave this boy (and he _was_ a boy, only nineteen years old) alone.

"Do you have any hobbies, sir?"

The question was so unexpected that Wes actually turned to look.

"...Hobbies?" he asked, dumbly.

"Y-you know, things you do for fun." Even as he was saying it, he found it nearly impossible to imagine his admin having "fun." 

"I know what a hobby is," Wes said, flatly. "Why are you asking?"

Why _was_ he asking? "I don't know, it's just that - I mean - "

Wes gave an amused chuckle, leaning his head onto one of his hands. "What were you going to say if I said yes?"

Silva blanked. "Uh...I'd ask what they were? Sir?"

"Right, and what would you say if I said no?"

"I guess that I would, um…" 

He trailed off. "I don't know. I'm sorry for asking, sir."

Wes waved his apology away. "It doesn't matter. No, I don't have any hobbies. What do you think would happen if any of the other admins ever caught me slacking?"

The implication there was clear enough. Since Wes was so young, so inexperienced, his position was precarious. But even if that were the case…

"They don't have to know."

"Famous last words," Wes countered.

Silva sighed again. "Yeah, fair enough...sir."

For a while they sat in silence again, Wes's gaze lingering on him for a second longer before turning back to whatever it was out in the desert that had captivated him so. Eventually, it was Silva again who broke the silence, feeling emboldened.

"Say, why do the people in Agate hate you so much?" he asked. It was baffling because the people in Pyrite didn't even seem to hate Miror as much as the people in Agate hated Wes - and although Wes was terrifying, cold, and ruthless, he still seemed _reasonable_ . Not someone who would incur that kind of _wrath_. 

Wes didn't blink as he answered.

"I killed the chief's granddaughter. With my own two hands." The words were cold, like everything about him. "I wouldn't be surprised if they never forgave me for the rest of their lives."

He turned to give Silva a cruel, mocking smile. "Good thing they're old."

Silva had to look away. Wes took that to mean he'd scared Silva off, and turned back to his desert vigil, unaffected - but that wasn't why Silva couldn't look him in the eyes anymore. The reason for _that_ was that Silva wouldn't have been able to hold a steady expression.

Because Wes _hadn't_ killed the chief's granddaughter. She was so bursting with life that it hurt to look at her, in fact. 

That meant...what did that mean? For one thing, a potential angle for Silva to approach the village chief with. Something he could use to get the old man on his side. 

He snuck a glance at Wes, at Wes's inscrutable expression.

But what did Wes's lie mean about _him?_

* * *

His mother combed a cool hand through his dark brown hair, picking through all the knots. She smelled like second-hand smoke and alcohol, but underneath it was her natural scent, warm and reassuring.

"Wes," she said, softly. "If your hair is anything like mommy's is, it'll be so pretty in the sunlight."

"There's no sun down here," Wes murmured back. "We live in the Dark and we'll probably never leave it."

She laughed, a ratty and wheezing noise that was probably, at some point, beautiful, the way that she herself was probably, at some point, beautiful.

"I love you, Wes," she said. "My strange, coldhearted little child. Do you love mommy?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

* * *

"Seriously," Wes said, quietly, "you're getting so fucking lazy. Is living here really that great?"

Umbreon yawned at him, showing sharp, white teeth, before rolling over onto its back, luxuriating in the feel of soft moss and grass. Its brother, suntanning, snapped at him as their bodies collided, but it wasn't a serious threat.

Wes sighed and knelt down. Agate was peaceful, between the elder citizens unable to act against them and the peons who fled from him the moment they could. They were able to steal quiet moments this way, brief little interludes where no one was watching. Wes pulled off his gloves and buried one of his scarred hands in umbreon's belly fur. In play-attack, it curled around him, biting and clawing harmlessly at his sleeves, which it knew were made of such thick leather that its fangs and claws could not reach Wes's skin if it were not serious with its attacks.

"Yeah, yeah," Wes said, with a rare smile, prying umbreon's jaws off his arm. That only made it latch on again, growling. Wes gave an amused snort and let his weight fall, collapsing over the two pokémon. Espeon yelped in protest and umbreon let out a snarl, batting at his leather-clad body with its paws.

Wes buried his face in espeon's fur. The sun really was nice, all the way out here in Agate, and the ground softer than most beds the three had ever spent the night in. And, in the peace and quiet of these precious moments they had to themselves, it was comfortable. Agate seemed to be suffused with a soothing, comfortable quality.

"Hey," he said, as the 'eons wriggled out from underneath him and repositioned themselves against his body, "what do the two of you say to settling down here someday?"

Espeon huffed, laying its head on Wes's arm, while umbreon gave a dissatisfied grumble as it draped itself over his body. 

"Yeah, I think so, too," Wes said. "It's way too nice for a buncha scumbags like us, huh?"

He pet espeon in long strokes, from the gem on its head to the tip of its forked tail. It purred and leaned in toward him, happy to fall asleep at his side.

Umbreon huffed and batted Wes's face with one of its paws, clambering up until it was fully seated on his body. It would take first watch, the gesture said, so Wes ought to get some rest while he was able. Accepting the offer, it wasn't long before the up-and-down of his breathing beneath umbreon's body had grown slow and even, his wary spirit only able to relax when at least one of them was standing guard.

This weak, vulnerable, and soft-hearted human. Wes had to be so strong in front of everyone else, even though he was still little more than a pup, his arms and legs still a little too long for his body.  


If only moments like this could last forever...indeed, umbreon thought so, too. That perhaps spending a long time in one comfortable place may not be so bad. But he knew his human's heart well, as well as he knew his own. The three of them were restless by nature, and the only reason they could enjoy comfort like this was because it was transient, temporary.

They could live anywhere but belonged nowhere. As long as they had each other, it was fine if no place were ever home for long. All the same…

...It'd be nice, Umbreon allowed itself to think. It'd be nice if this moment could last just a little longer.

* * *

Venus huffed, her veil blowing out a little with the action. There were three admins gathered for the weekly meeting, just her, Miror, and Ein, at a table set for eight. Their heads, Nascour and Evice, not being present was normal, and currently Dakim had his hands full with the Kabla Mountain fight. But there was one empty seat left unaccounted for, that admin’s only prior notice of his absence being a short, one-word message indicating he’d received his weekly orders. 

"And once more Wes fails to show up,” Venus said, mock-pouting. “My, you'd almost get the impression he hates us!"

Miror laughed from the other side of the table. "Fuhohoho! It can't be helped! You know what a workaholic our dear little Wes is. And poor Dakim's seat is empty today as well!"

Ein's lip curled in annoyance. "These weekly meetings are not chances to _slack off_ , you two."

"Why, Ein dear, that's _all_ they are," Venus said, lightly. "If not for these meetings, you'd have poor me stuck down in that awful hole all week, wouldn't you?"

"I would at least heavily consider it," Ein grumbled. Venus made a show of taking offense, but neither of them were seriously trading blows. Miror laughed, clearly amused by the show.

"Well then!" he said, leaning forward. "Since I'm sure we've already read through this week's report, let's just skip it all. There's so much to gossip about this week, isn't there?"

"We can't just _gloss it over_ ," Ein said, impatiently. "The HQ branch is coming to visit. There's logistical planning to be done in preparation, there's - "

"Miror," Venus interjected, "How are Dakim's odds looking, lately? My dear peons have been running around, placing bets all willy-nilly, and I was wondering what an admin pot would look like."

"Fuhoho! Well, my dear, far be it from me to cast shade upon our esteemed coworker, but I'm afraid the writing's on the wall. But then, who would have thought that Mt. Battle was so prepared for siege warfare?"

"My my," Venus said, hiding her mouth with her sleeve. "I imagine HQ won't be very happy with that. I hope he doesn't make any rash decisions in the name of tidying up shop before our superiors arrive…that would be tragic, don't you agree?"

"Fuhoho, but shouldn't you be more worried about the rats in your own nest?" Miror asked, a small edge in his voice. "That Children's Network, aren't they based in the Under, dear Venus? _Your_ terrain?"

"Ohoho! I'm so touched by your concern." Her sharp smile was anything but. "But I've heard that you're a bigger target. Then again, that's why you chose those colors for that lovely hair of yours, isn't it? To emulate a bull's-eye. Oh, but the patterning isn't right...shall I have my stylist fix it for you?"

Ein heaved a resigned sigh and sank into his seat. Clearly, like every week, no work was going to get done today.

"Don't think we forgot about _you,_ sweet Ein of ours," Venus purred. "I heard from the vanguard that the HQ branch has a brilliant little scientist of their own. Are you not worried for your job security?"

Ein did not rise to her barb. He had no interest in being cute, where this topic was concerned.

"My only interest lies in performing research on shadowfication," he said, curtly. "Whether that is as the head of the lab or as the second-in-command. They cannot cut me out of the project so easily."

"Well, indeed, we'd be lost without you," Miror laughed. "But _I_ heard that the new scientist deeply favors her younger brother. Are you still quite alright with third place?"

"I appreciate your concern," Ein said, narrowing his eyes behind his glasses, "but I have no need for it."

Venus grinned behind her veil. "Come, now, Miror, can't you see we're upsetting the poor dear? Let's change the subject, so we don't rub any more sand in the wound. A lovely new store opened up in the Brights just recently, and I was wondering if you would like to go…"

* * *

"Welcome to Agate, Master Ardos, Master Eldes, Grand Master Greevil."

The boy standing before Eldes and his family gave a stiff, shallow bow to each one in turn, first Greevil, then Eldes dressed in red, then his twin brother, dressed in blue. Ardos, next to him, was clearly scandalized by how brusque this admin was, having already made a snide comment to Eldes about his delinquent appearance, his mirrored visor, but it wasn't a large enough offense to warrant him actually saying something. In any case, their father - Grand Master Greevil - stepped forward, his purple cloak billowing in the wind.

"Hoho. Wes, is it?"

"Yeah." Wes paused for a second, before adding on "boss."

"My, but you're very young. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Eldes couldn't help the surprise in his expression, hidden by his own mirrored shades. Still a _teenager_ …

While he didn't particularly enjoy participating in the rumor mill, his brother, Ardos, liked to keep his finger on that pulse, and he had informed Eldes beforehand of what was being said about this particular admin. That he was cutthroat, ruthless, and cool-headed down to his core. That he was terrifyingly competent, whether it was in battling or in his admin duties. But Eldes couldn't see any of that when he looked at Wes...all _he_ saw was a nineteen-year-old child, in platform boots to mask how short he was, eyes cast to the floor behind his mirrored visor.

"I'll show you to your bunk," he said, already turning to go. 

Ardos, already frazzled from the disrespect, finally had to have a word in. "Wait. This 'bunk,' it's been _properly_ prepared, hasn't it?"

Wes's expression didn't change, but he did stop and glance back.

"They're the best seat in the house," he said, flatly. "If that's what you're asking...boss."

Oh. Eldes could see a vein appear on Ardos's temple. He stepped in.

"May we have some specifications, Wes?" he asked.

"Room with a view," Wes answered. "Two bedroom, one room has two beds. Short walk to the town center, to the base, to the site. 24/7 guard detail."

Eldes nodded. "Yes, that sounds more than adequate for our one-week stay. Please, show us to the building."

"Come now, Ardos," Greevil said, cheerfully. "I'm sure our admin here understands the importance of our visit. We are in good hands, are we not, Wes?"

"Yeah. Only the best for the boss." He said it dryly, although not with enough sardonicism to warrant an admonishment. Wes turned to go. 

The juxtaposition of this boy's age with the completely emotionless tone he spoke with was - not unnerving, not really, but somehow a little sad. No expression beneath that reflective visor. No hitch in his step. Even his underlings were quiet and unobtrusive as they followed behind with the Verich family's luggage.

They reached the villa that had been prepared for them, and even Ardos had to snort and admit that it was adequate. It was homely in the way Agate buildings tended to be, covered by a quaint layer of moss, with a manicured garden and a clean indoor space that had been freshly wiped down and dusted. 

"This building seems quite old," Greevil noted, running a hand over a worn, wooden counter. "Was it here originally?"

"Yeah. Belonged to a family here, but they've been moved. Boss." He said it matter-of-factly. "They won't be an issue."

"I see, I see."

Wes waited near the doorway until they were satisfied and Greevil gave him the clearance to leave. There would be a peon posted at their front door 24/7 in case they needed groceries or a guide or any other small, menial errand to be run - standard procedure. They could also call Wes at any time, in case of anything a peon couldn't resolve.

By the time Eldes could escape his family, Wes was already so far off that Eldes had to jog to reach him.

"Ah, wait a moment, Wes, if you would."

Wes stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face him, although he kept his gaze lowered. "Yes, boss?"

He really was...small. A small, skinny, scrawny child. The very definition of a charity case.

"Actually, it's a bit of a personal request." Frankly, Eldes didn't really care for matters of status or prestige, if Wes called him sir or boss or used a polite tone. It was just that - well, organizations had rankings for a reason, and cutthroat criminal ones even moreso; he couldn't ask his underlings to drop formalities for the same reason one didn't leave cage bars unlocked. 

"If you're alright with it, I'd like to have a battle with you." 

He said that, but it wasn't as though Wes could refuse. Eldes had challenged him because he couldn't get a read on Wes at all. But everything would be laid bare in a battle - what stuff Wes was made of.

At this, Wes finally raised his eyes, his expression still hidden behind his visor. As Eldes expected, as simple an action as that was enough for the veneer of weakness to drop. Wes was strong - _how_ strong remained to be seen, but he would be a challenge at least.

"If the boss wants a battle, he'll get a battle," Wes said, an edge creeping into his voice. "But it happens where the peons can't see."

Eldes raised an eyebrow. That sort of request meant one thing only: Wes thought he was going to lose. Which was interesting, because that meant that he'd accurately judged Eldes's strength. There were not many who could do so.

"Of course," Eldes said. He had no interest in humiliating Wes, so it was an easy enough request to grant. 

"Follow me," Wes nodded, his cold demeanor not wavering even once.

* * *

"Your granddaughter is alive."

That was Silva's approach. He was still wearing the uniform, and that was what got him through the door - although Eagun, the village chief, had glared at him the whole time. The elderly couple flinched when he said so, but contrary to his hopes, Eagun's glare only grew more intense.

"What kind of dirty trick is this?" he asked. "Haven't you Cipher bastards toyed with this old man enough?"

"It's not a trick, and I'm not Cipher."

Well, Silva had been expecting resistance. He was, after all, that hated Wes's subordinate. From inside his sleeve he pulled out the photo the Kid's Grid had smuggled to him upon his request - a photo of Rui next to a display of a date from last week (she was, of course, beaming at the camera) - and handed it over. He didn't have the time to wait for their reactions - every second he spent here was dangerous. It was only because Wes was busy entertaining their HQ guests that Silva had chanced this at all.

"I'm a member of the Kid's Grid, a resistance group dedicated to fighting and overthrowing Cipher control. My current mission is to establish contact with Agate, which has been closed off from the rest of the region."

Eagun didn't seem to hear him, clutching the photograph with trembling fingers. "You - you've met with Rui?" 

"Yes. Once, right before I left to infiltrate Cipher." 

She was naïve - and Silva thought that that was quite significant when he was the one to say so. But he had also thought, as he was speaking with her, that it was exactly that kind of bold, fiery, impossibly bright naïvety that would save the region. She was someone who made you believe in yourself. She was someone who made you feel like you mattered, that you could do anything if you tried.

Silva stood, having glanced at the clock. He’d been missing from his post only a few minutes, but considering sharp-eyed Wes...he didn’t want to risk any more time than he needed.

"Since I'm undercover, keep treating me like I'm Cipher,” he said, in a hurried tone. “I bet you need time to think things over, and I need to get back before anyone gets suspicious. You should burn that photo once you're done with it." 

"R-right, of course," Eagun said, nodding. "We will - as you say, we will think things over. Yes."

Silva nodded and rushed for the door, letting himself out. Behind him, he could hear Beluh, the chief's wife, begin to cry.

"She's _alive_ ," he heard her say.

Yes, this was his job, what it was that he was after: in Beluh's voice, he'd heard the kindling of hope. 

* * *

Was this how Eldes had done it?

At Wes's unspoken command, his eons rushed at each other, and this time it was his umbreon's turn trying to twist out of the way.

The HQ branch had flown in from across the sea...and they'd brought with them battling strategies and tactics that Wes had never seen before. He'd been crushed. Maimed. If this battle had been for real, then Eldes would have won the right to do whatever he wanted - thank god the admin's only request was that Wes take off the visor when talking to his family.

His umbreon jumped, twisted, and stuck its landing. Under Wes's eagle eyes, the move was still rusty and unpolished, leaving too much room for error, too much space for a counter. Clearly, his umbreon was also dissatisfied, tossing its head with frustration and stamping its feet to get a better feel for the movement.

Again, Wes ordered in his head, and his 'eons, both Synchronized with their trainer, took up their stances at the opposite ends of their training ground.

Again.

Again.

Again. Until they wouldn't lose to anyone.

Again.

* * *

"How did your match with that _child_ go?" Ardos teased him when he returned. "Reduced to fighting mere babes, eh, Eldes?"

"It was rather interesting, actually," Eldes said, ignoring the jeer. "He's quite strong. I was impressed. In a couple years, I expect he'll give us a run for our money."

"High praise," Greevil nodded. "It seems as though the Orre branch has scouted quite the talent."

"You mean to tell us that a nineteen-year-old was enough to give you trouble?" Ardos goaded. "Are you sure you are not simply losing your touch, brother mine?"

"Ardos," Greevil warned. Ardos wilted at the admonishment, but maintained his usual smirk.

"Not trouble," Eldes shrugged, sitting down on one of the sofas in the lounge area. In the end, he had still been victorious - handily so. "It was challenge enough to be entertaining, that's all. I still won rather easily. For his age, he's rather monstrous - I can only imagine how much stronger he'll get."

He leaned back in his seat. Wes was actually a surprisingly kindhearted person, Eldes thought, recalling his battling style. It was chaotic and unpredictable, but pulling off what he did required an incomprehensible amount of training and trust between him and his pokémon. "Actually, I think I'm rather fond of him."

Ardos's yellow eyes glittered. "Is that so…?"

* * *

The islands of Orre, in the region's southwest, were small, comfortable places to live. Outside settlers only cared for the gold that lay buried under the mainland desert sand, and so the islands, archipelagos, had been left untouched, in peace. It was their gentle, sloping shores, the chilly seaspray, and the call of wingull that characterized Eldes's childhood. 

His father was a third son. His oldest uncle had inherited the position of village chief, and his next-oldest had grown into head priest, leaving Greevil with nothing to inherit. For that reason, as soon as Greevil had come of age, he’d struck out on his own, to search the land for a livelihood. 

He had always been gifted with an eye for value - for exportable wares, for diamonds in the rough - and with it, he'd found and married a beautiful outlander woman, whose smiles Eldes knew only from the dusty photo albums tucked in the corners of his childhood home. She was a paleoanthropologist, who had come to explore the ruins of the native civilization amidst the last of the riots of the dying gold rush. With her help, Greevil had laid claim to the last windfall the desert had to offer. 

Practically overnight, Greevil became wealthy beyond his wildest imagination. But his success came with it several ends: the end of the gold rush, the death of his wife, and the loss of his family name. Eldes learned of this because he would sneak out to the half of the island his father did not own and play with the children there. They called his father "Mister Death-Gold," told stories about how the blood and tears of the desert people had poisoned everything the miners found, about how Greevil's fortune had come by blasting open sacred sites that had been sealed away long ago, and how it was this exact misfortune that had poisoned his wife - it was this misfortune that had caused Greevil's eldest brother to condemn him for being blinded by the same greed as the outlanders, that had made his second-eldest damn him for becoming impure in the eyes of the great bird of the sea. 

But Mister Death-Gold was Eldes's father, and he loved Eldes, and Eldes' brother, and Eldes's mother. And he must have loved his own father and mother and brothers, too; every now and again, when Eldes was young, he'd see his father gaze out of the window on the second story of their Kanto-style house in the direction of his own childhood home, an unfathomable sadness in his eyes.

Eldes went to university in Hoenn. The decision to move abroad was fueled by his desire to reconnect with his mother's side of the family, to expand his horizons before he became tied down to the company, since it was very likely he'd inherit some or all control of Verich Mining Co. someday. Accordingly, he majored in business and economics, and learned that the world was vast and bright and beautiful even outside the confines of his little island home. His brother, meanwhile, opted to stay behind in Orre, a constant at their father's side.

Something had...changed in them upon Eldes's return. They had found something interesting mixed in with the gold and silver, they said. They'd overlooked it at first. A strange black crystal, like in all their childish village fables. Eldes thought it looked the color of curses - that there was something deeply saddening about its existence.

From that point on, Verich Mining Co. began to change, and Eldes was swamped with work. They created a new branch, Cipher, which was intended to deal with the rampant crime in Orre in the place of its paper-thin government. Soon, Cipher became their company's sole focus, with the mining corporation little more than a legal front. After all, they had a chokehold on the resources coming out of Orre, and could therefore afford leisure when dealing with exports. Soon enough, Cipher, too, became an international endeavor, focusing on white-collar crime and illegal research. Their HQ moved out of Orre, their network expanded at an exponential rate.

And then Greevil was notified that the research he had left to the Orre branch had borne fruit. After several long, arduous years of testing, Cipher had replicated that legendary state of shadowfication - had discovered a way to induce it.

"I'm filled with foreboding at the idea of utilizing this phenomenon," Eldes had said. "The stories about it are...off-putting. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Stories! Legends! Myths!" Ardos scoffed. "Eldes, brother mine, what we have here is _science._ Progress. The _future."_

"I agree with Ardos," Greevil said, with a calm smile. "This will be Cipher's path forward. Unless you have some scientific evidence, Eldes, I will ask you refrain from giving that opinion - it may cause insurrection within the ranks, or rumors that we are not a unified, happy family, and we _are_ , are we not?"

Greevil was already old. It wasn't much longer before he retired, and between Eldes and volatile Ardos, Eldes was clearly the better fit for Cipher's reins. Whatever his father was planning, Eldes thought, it could be diverted after Eldes rose to power; he could wait until then. 

He owed much to his family, to his father who had taken care of him, and his brother, who had always been a rival that pushed Eldes to do his best. He didn't want to fight them.

Even so...that shadow crystal, that M-18, that "heartstone," as his uncle called it in a folktale once...why did it pain his heart to see it?

And why was it, he wondered, that the next time he felt that familiar pang, it was as he stared at Wes's uncovered eyes, which were the same shade of brilliant golden-yellow as his own?

* * *

"Once, the land of Orre was verdant and green, and flowers bloomed at all times of the year.

"In these bygone times, there was once a hidden grove, in the middle of which was a big, beautiful lake, with water so clear and calm that it reflected the sky like a polished obsidian mirror. 

"To show their gratitude for the sun and the rains that made their fertile land possible, the people of the land would regularly pay tribute to the great birds by making an offering of gold or silver. Gold, the color of the sun; silver, the color of rainclouds. When the wind would ripple the surface of this lake, in which the sky was reflected, the two birds could see the gold and silver that glittered at the bottom. With this, they were very pleased.

"And in those times, there lived a king, and his beloved wife, the queen..."

  * _Whispers on the Wind: A Compendium of Orrean Folklore_



* * *

"Eldes!" Ardos shouted at him, upon his return to their shared Agate house, three days after their arrival. Eldes glanced up at him from the book he was reading, which had come with the house - in the margins were scribbled drawings from a young child, and not for the first time, Eldes wondered bitterly about where exactly the family that was kicked out had gone.

"What is it, Ardos? Does it really warrant such a loud voice?"

"You! You have been secretly providing training to that Wes boy, haven't you?" He was pointing a finger in Eldes's direction as he stalked forward. "I have warned you again and again not to show underlings any special favor!"

What a wild accusation. Even Eldes knew better than that. He shut the book and set it aside. "On what basis do you make this claim?" he asked, coldly. 

"I had a match with the boy just now," Ardos said, crossing his arms. "And he very nearly defeated me, although that was only because I was caught off-guard. And he was using battle tactics reminiscent of yours - how many times have the two of us crossed blades? Did you think I wouldn't recognize your technique!"

Eldes felt himself break into a cold sweat. Yes, Eldes was a stronger battler than Ardos was, but not by a wide margin. Indeed, it was a gap that would close if he ever slacked on his training. For Ardos himself to admit that Wes had nearly defeated him...in only _three days_ since Eldes had won such a handy victory...it could only mean that Eldes had catastrophically underestimated Wes's capacity for growth. 

"Ardos," Eldes said, slowly, carefully, firmly. "I did not train Wes. I have not engaged with him in any battle except our first. Am I a liar?"

Ardos stared at him long and hard, slowly loosening his jaw.

"No," he admitted. "You are not. Then - from where did he learn those strategies?"

"If they are so reminiscent of mine," Eldes said, "then they could only have been learned from me."

"In one battle? Preposterous."

"Ardos," Eldes said, gravely. He knew Ardos's nature - fragile and volatile, unable to leave well enough alone. "I say this out of concern for you: stay away from that child. Do not engage with him as anything more than an employer and employee.”

Someone that fast to grow, with the kinds of rumors he had swirling around him...frankly speaking, was dangerous. He was dangerous.

Ardos narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching again. "I shall do as I please," he said, turning with a flourish of his sleeves. "He has more to learn from me than he does the likes of you!"


	5. Missing the boat.

"The desert is full of ghosts, Wes," his mother warned him in her storytelling voice, a hushed and brittle whisper in his ear. Her long, dyed-black hair fell over her fragile shoulders and her jutting bones, the shadows gathered in odd, sharp angles all over her body. "At night, you can hear them wailing through doorways and windows."

"That's just the wind," Wes mumbled. "And you can't hear it where we live."

She laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Why are you like this?" she asked, her voice one part delight and one part bittersweet. "So lacking in whimsy and magic and fancy. That you don't believe in gods or ghosts. That you're not scared of anything, that you're not foolish or frivolous at all."

She rested her head on his, her body cool, the shabby blanket barely enough to keep the two of them warm. 

"Sorry," Wes said. He did believe in ghosts. He just thought they wouldn't wail - they'd weep. "But ghosts live in the desert. This isn't the desert. We live in the mining tunnels, and even ghosts don't want to come down here."

Ghosts cried because they wanted to do what only the living could. And the Dark, where they called home, was not populated by the living, but the shambling dead.

His mother laughed. "Then how about this, Wes? The mining tunnels are full of monsters. You can hear their footsteps at night."

"Those are drunks."

"No," she said, pulling him closer. "Close your eyes. What do you hear?"

Just the beating of their two hearts. 

* * *

In the furthest, most inaccessible reaches of the desert was a construction lot that stretched at least two or three miles end to end. The expedience with which HQ worked was on full display; in six months, they'd managed to build what took the Orre branch several years at the Realgam site.

Snow was drifting over the site from where it blew in from the nearby mountains, winking in the light of the full moon outside the hastily-constructed windows of the worker's quarters. The inside had been temporarily cleared away and decorated, finished blueprints for the site used as hanging posters, detailing a pyramid structure jammed into the earth.

In one corner, Nascour, Evice, and the Verich family were sitting in a makeshift VIP lounge, attended to by one peon each. The rest of the site, ignoring steel shavings on the ground, was filled with admins, the first full meeting between the Orre branch and HQ.

Outlanders. The clothes they wore, the movements of their bodies, their odd, unfathomable customs - it was clear that none of them had ever spent extended time in this region before; Wes was sure that, once drunk, at least half of them would be the kind of targets he'd have chased after as a scavenger on the Under streets. They wore their hearts on their sleeves - happy and complacent, talked big ideals like getting along and meant it. Wes had refused every handshake that had come his way, because every set of eyes that glanced over him had the same expression. What was a child doing here? What was with his delinquent looks? Was he even worth being on the payroll at all?

Gorigan, an engineer with goggles and a big wrench on his belt, who'd quietly let it slide. Snattle, a pompous politician dressed in an expensive white longcoat, whose lip had curled as he'd walked away with big, self-important strides. And Lovrina, a scientist with pink hair almost dusting the ground, who looked like she was about to throw a temper tantrum. Wes memorized their names and faces even as he turned them away with a stiff bow of the head.

"I see that you are rude to everyone," Ardos snickered, leaning over the VIP railing. "That is a bad habit of yours, little boy."

"Sorry, boss," Wes said, listlessly. "I'll do better next time."

"Leave him be, Ardos," Eldes sighed. "Orreans have a different way of doing things. If you'll notice, only Ein accepted any handshakes, and if I remember correctly, he was born in Kalos."

"I was merely giving the boy my advice," Ardos responded, impatiently. "And you only highlight how uncouth the Orreans truly are…"

Wes closed his eyes and waited for this formality to be over, leaning against the far wall away from all the other admins so he wouldn't be drawn into useless chatter.

Suddenly, there was a shriek from the buffet table, all eyes turning towards Venus and Lovrina - Lovrina with a bright red stain on her dress, Venus with an empty glass and a catty smile on her face.

Wes cocked his head. So it was starting, then. The Orre welcome.

"Arara," Venus said, in her usual coy, flirtatious voice. "I am ever so sorry, Lovrina dear. It seems as though this 'old hag' has grown clumsy in her advanced age...I do hope you forgive me."

"You - ! Who would believe that?" Lovrina shrieked. "Do you even realize who I am!"

"My, you really are such a _cute_ little thing," Venus said, tilting her head. Her smile grew wider. "If memory serves, didn't you introduce yourself as 'the genius of the decade'?"

Lovrina was blushing a furious red. "That's right. And you're just a whore whose only talent is getting lewd old men to watch TV - "

The HQ admins were all staring, unsure of themselves; the Orre branch continued on like nothing was happening. Before Eldes could rise out of his seat, Nascour gently sat him back down.

"Master Eldes," he said, with a similarly emotionless smile. "Please do not interfere."

"But - "

"Watch," Nascour said, smiling. "Venus is going through all the trouble of putting on a show for us, no?"

Venus waited out Lovrina's slurry of insults without the slightest crack in her flawless smile. When Lovrina was finished, only then did Venus move - languidly, deliberately, gracefully, leaning her head against her hand. There was murder in her eyes, but little else.

"My adorable child," Venus purred, "it seems you and I are at an impasse. After all, I am a bitch and a slut and a whore, as you say, and you are an incestuous little sow, and so I must respectfully defer judgement to our superiors."

Lovrina gasped at the insult, but she couldn't retort when Venus's next action was to turn to the VIP lounge and gave a deep curtsey, her soft brown hair falling over her face. "Dear Masters, which one of us owes the other an apology?"

Greevil smiled. "Lovrina," he said, "please apologize to Venus for provoking her."

Lovrina spluttered, and Eldes seemed uneasy. Greevil opened one golden eye, his expression turning from genial to intimidating.

"Did you not hear me? Apologize."

"But - "

"Cipher controls the Under as much as Venus is loyal to us," he said, simply. "Whereas you have the intellect of a hundred men...and we have the budget for a hundred men. Do you understand? You reached too high. Apologize."

Lovrina, stunned into silence, looked around the room for help. One by one, everyone looked away. It was a pecking order all of them were aware of - she was the only one not to have figured it out. 

"I…" she grit her teeth. "I'm sorry, Grand Master Greevil."

"No, no," he said, smiling, back to his sunny façade. "Not to me. To Venus."

Venus laughed. "I think we have toyed with the kitten enough," she said, with upturned eyes. "I will forgive you, Lovrina dear. Please _do_ play with me again sometime. You're ever so cute, after all."

She looked like she was about to cry as she stormed away and slammed the door behind her. Eldes, at his table, let out a shaky breath.

"That was...somewhat harsh," he said.

"That's business, boss," Wes consoled him.

* * *

Venus's back was covered in scars. So, of course, she'd grown her hair out long to cover them. She wore dresses pulled all the way up the back of her neck.

Her heart, too, was covered in scars. And that was why she wore makeup and an impenetrable smile. Her weapon as well as her fortress.

And all of those, together (scars and hair and makeup and smile), were why she didn't feel the littlest bit bad about anything she'd ever done. Because she refused to add more to her collection...because she refused to bleed any longer.

In a way, she envied the cute. She envied people with unblemished skin, with soft faces, with bleeding hearts uncalloused by sand and nourished by the sun. She envied them so much it made her sick. So how dare they have problems, frankly; how dare they have complaints. How dare they use their cute faces to cry, how dare they...

* * *

"What do you want?" Lovrina snapped at him, with tears in her eyes. "Come to humiliate me some more? I heard you're from that same shanty town as Venus is. What, are you her lackey?"

Wes snorted. He had to agree with Venus - Lovrina _was_ weak. Maybe it was her hairstyle, maybe it was her age; something about her reminded him of that girl with a voice as clear as a bell. In any case, the claws she was baring at him were as harmless as a kit's - his skin had grown hard enough that they'd stopped mattering long ago.

"Any other admin would tan you for saying that," he said, plainly. "I thought you could use a ride back to wherever it is you're staying."

She sniffed and turned away, cheeks still angry red. "I don't need it," she muttered. "My brother Naps will be coming by soon. Okay? I don't want your pity."

"Sure," Wes said, leaning against a naked metal girder. "Then I'll be company 'til he gets here."

"Didn't you hear me? I don't want your pity!"

"Yeah, and I don't want to be at that stuffy fucking party, so shut the fuck up," he retorted. "You're a useful excuse. If you didn't talk to me at all, that'd be great."

She gave him a funny look, sniffed again, then sat herself down on some half-finished stairs a short distance away from him. Around them drifted mountain snow, sparkling where it caught the lamplight.

At length, Lovrina sighed, breaking the heavy silence. She buried her head in her knees, hugging them close to her body.

"No offense," she started, a phrase which only ever preceded a statement meant to cause offense, "but I really hate your region."

"That so," Wes said, disinterested.

"Yeah. Your tap water's too dirty to drink and sometimes it comes out brown. Your mattresses are all hard as rock and smell like smoke. Everyone's rude and blockheaded and ungrateful. And everywhere you look, there's just sand and sand and more sand!" She turned her big green eyes on him. "Why haven't you ever tried to leave this place? Why do any of you people stick around?"

Why, huh. "It's not like I had a choice," Wes muttered.

"A ticket out doesn't cost _so_ much."

"Sure, but then what?" He kicked at the ground. "You know, everyone who's from Orre gets stopped and searched at customs, and those are the ones _with_ ID. The rest of us, we just get sent right back home. We're the dirty secret. The closet they shove their skeletons into. They don't like us going outside."

Lovrina's frown deepened as Wes continued. 

"The people that are born here, we're resigned to dying here. So you've got pretty big balls to complain to us, that's all."

Lovrina was quiet for a while longer, lost in thought. Wes, meanwhile, tilted his head back, staring up at the sky.

"...Say, what's your name again?" she asked.

"Wes."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen." He paused. "Well, twenty now, maybe. Dunno when my birthday is for sure."

She put on a smile - forced, because her eyes were still puffy like she wanted to cry, and it faltered near the edges - as she turned to look at him.

"You're cute," she grinned. "And the same age as me. When we take over the world, I'll take you home to where I come from, okay? And then you'll be _so_ grateful you'll kiss my feet."

He snorted. "I don't want your pity," he said, throwing her words back at her. "Besides, this place ain't so bad."

"Oh, really?" she countered. "Name one good thing about it."

He pointed up at the sky, and Lovrina turned to look. When she noticed just how _many_ stars there were up there, even with the construction lot floodlights drowning most of them out, Wes saw her eyes widen.

"My advice," he said, "you get your brother to drive out until you can't see any lights, then cut the engine and the battery. There's no clearer view anywhere 'cept the north and south poles...that's what they write in all the tourist pamphlets, anyway."

Lovrina had no words, staring speechlessly up at the starry expanse. She turned to stare at him with those same eyes.

"...Hey," she said, cautiously. "Thanks."

Wes turned away. "Can't buy lunch with a 'thanks.' If you feel like I did somethin' for you, then pay me back in a way that counts someday."

She gave one last sniff and wiped her nose, before puffing out her chest and crossing her arms.

"That attitude's why you're so unpopular, you know?" she said, back to her usual self. And then, quieter, "though it's not like I hate it."

* * *

The great bird of the sea, the rain, the fog. The merciful, the mourning, the grieving; that of the silver wings, that of the singing voice, that of the tempest, the tide, the caller of the moon. 

Lugia, one of the great guardian birds of Orre. 

“So what do you think of our newest acquisition?” Ardos asked him, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was he who had invited Wes here, with a giant grin that showed all his intentions on his face. He was not looking at Wes; he was looking at his brother. He had the same eyes as Snagem did when they looked at Wes and saw someone they'd never measure up to - gross envy coloring their expressions. In those avaricious eyes, Wes was little more than a poseable doll painted in Eldes's red hue. How miserable.

In front of them, Lugia struggled against its bonds, crying and loosing blasts of energy from its mouth, which ricocheted off the containment chamber glass and fizzled out. It was a sight Wes had seen a million times while working in Snagem's care. 

“It’s a big bird,” Wes said, disinterested. “A pokemon just like any other.”

“Yes, exactly!” Ardos laughed, affectionately pulling Wes closer. “That’s _exactly_ what it is. Nothing more and nothing less. No matter what my foolish brother might say.”

* * *

Gonzap's laugh resounded through the bunker, so loud that Nett worried it might even leak through the steel and concrete walls and get them caught by the Cipher scouts roaming the Under streets. It was because of their patrols that the Kid's Grid had moved out of the Brights, the neon strip that sat under the ravine, and into the Dark, the abandoned mining tunnels, the "residential district" lit with only dim, flickering yellow filament bulbs.

If you did not want to be found in The Dark, you would not be found...for better or for worse.

Gonzap was laughing because they were talking about Wes, the Agate admin. Across the table from him was a pouting Rui, her cheeks puffed out and angry red.

"Little missy," Gonzap said, wiping a tear from his eye. "That's the best joke I've ever heard."

"It's not a joke!" she said, nearly shouting. "Wes is a nice guy. He doesn't want to be doing all this. If we could just talk to him, I'm sure we could convince him - "

"That we're a pack of crazy idiots!" Gonzap said, slamming the table in mirth. "And then he'll strangle you with his bare hands, I'll bet. I raised that boy for seven years, little girl; I can swear on Arceus's left asscheek that my little boy's nothing more than a mad dog, and our only option is to put the damn mutt down."

Oh man, Rui looked like she was about to cry. Although Nett felt uncomfortable standing up to big, burly Gonzap, he was on his feet before he knew it.

"Hey, hey," he said, raising his hands. "We are here for the same cause. Gonzap, can you please not tease Rui?"

"Gyahaha, to be lowering my head to a brat like you...but fine, I've had my fun."

"Thanks," Nett said, his smile forced. "And Rui, I know you...feel indebted to Wes, but we can't discount Gonzap's years spent with him. Any information we can get for this plan is useful. You want to see your grandparents again as soon as possible, right?"

Rui took a moment to calm down, tears in her eyes, until finally relenting with a nod and slumping back down in her seat. "Fine."

"Thanks, Rui," Nett said, sighing with relief as he sat back down. "So, Gonzap, what were you saying?"

"That I think we'd be better off taking Pyrite than Agate," Gonzap said, "because that Miror fellow is strong, but sloppy. And I didn't raise Wes to be sloppy. We march into our funerals, if we march in through the front gate." Gonzap leaned in over the table. "But I'm sure you already knew that. So why don't you tell me? What it is, exactly, that's so worth your time in that old folk's home of a village?"

Nett shared a worried glance with the other members of the gathered Kid's Grid.

He cleared his throat. "Agate is currently being occupied because it holds a shrine to Celebi, which is capable of purifying shadow pokémon. Furthermore, as Admin Wes is the most skilled user of the portable snag machine, it is also currently being housed in Agate. If we want to fight against Cipher's shadow pokémon plan - "

"Forget the snag machine," Gonzap said, dismissively. "Wes will be guarding that with his life, and there isn't a person alive that can match him at using it. Write it up as a lost cause. But this 'purification' stuff - you're saying we can make Cipher's greatest weapons turn useless?"

"We can hope," Nett said. "That's what our source seems to believe, anyway."

Gonzap grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "I still don't like it," he said. "This is a suicide mission if I ever heard of one. So if you wanna know what I think…"

Gonzap's gaze slid across the table. "Let's focus down the Kabla mountains. If we can hook up with them, we'll have resources and a small army. And to the Agate suicide mission, we'll just send two: me, and that missy over there who thinks she can talk Wes into leaving us alone."

Rui was surprised by that proposal. "So you think I can do it?"

"Hell no," Gonzap grinned. "But I think _I_ can hold him off while you and the spy run away. And I think it'd be good for you to see him turn his fangs on you, and get a good dose of reality into that empty head of yours!"

"Hey - !"

"Because!" Gonzap slammed his hand on the table, rattling the room. "This isn't a story where we get to hold hands and sing. This is Orre! No one's loved that boy since he was born, and he sure as hell ain't got any love to spare neither, and that's a common story 'round these parts, sweetie; that boy was born broken and I never did him no favors, and he'll be crooked and filthy 'til the day he dies, like me and my boys and everyone else in this godforsaken desert!"

"You're wrong," Rui said, no less fervently. "And I know you're wrong, because even though you said all that, you're still here."

"I'm only here because I owe that boy a beating," Gonzap said. "Once my score is settled, I'm through."

"You can say whatever you want, but you're _here._ And Wes will be, too. I'll prove to you that you're wrong."

"Missy," Gonzap laughed, "I'm the reason he's got all those scars!"

"I know," she said, conviction burning brighter than ever. "Which is why, when we see him in Agate, I'm going to give you a big punch in the jaw for him. Get ready for that! There's no backing out now!"

* * *

Wes curled inwards, shaking.

In his ears, Lugia was condemning him with its broken roars as its spirit was cracked, again and again.

Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.

* * *

In the dead of Agate night, a lone rat was running.

Under his arm, Silva carried the time flute, which was made of wood so old and resonant he thought he could hear a song whistle through his ears just from the wind that rushed past him as he ran. An old smuggler's route sat defunct behind the village, through the forests, and as a special consideration, Eagun had allowed him to take a shortcut through the Relic Shrine, which was normally forbidden to outsiders.

It was night. Even in the rainforest, it was cold. His breath was coming out of him in foggy puffs in the chill, the way forward lit by the bright full moon - even so, he tripped over gnarled roots and jagged shadows, each tumble sending him crashing into the undergrowth. He cursed his useless legs, his clumsy feet. If only he were quiet and subtle, if only he were swift and sure, instead of the fallible mortal he was.

But he only had one shot. The Kid's Grid only had one chance - one chance to steal from Cipher their greatest weakness, one chance to give them even the whisper of a hope against the monolithic organization.

The sound of that hope shattering was a cold, emotionless voice calling out his name, and sharp golden eyes reflected in the beam of his torch.

"Valis," Wes said, judge, jury, and executioner all at once.

Even now that they were enemies, Silva felt his body freeze on command. He grit his teeth and pushed past the feeling, willing his body to stumble forward, away. But he couldn't take more than a single step when he was blinded by a flash of yellow; when he could see again, he was facing down Wes's 'eons, monsters as cold and ruthless as their master. 

Where Wes went, these two followed. Silva squeezed his eyes shut.

Maybe here, one of the other admins would taunt or gloat. Ask what he was doing, or if he really thought he could get away with it. But Wes did not have mercy. Silva had never seen his infallible, unflappable boss show kindness in all the time he'd known him.

But umbreon's fangs did not close down around his neck, like he'd been expecting. When he opened his eyes, he saw the back of an armaldo, which gave a roar, tail lashing at the ground. A granbull jumped in to join it, and between Silva and Wes stepped a bulky, intimidating frame.

"Wahahaha! You've gotten taller since last I saw you, eh, Wes?"

"...Long time no see, boss," Wes said, colder than Silva had ever heard him. "Move."

* * *

Gonzap was a reasonable man, and he had a soft spot for kids besides. It didn't make him feel good to order a small, malnourished street rat be beaten for information - but that was probably a testament to how valuable eevees were, for their price tag to be so much more than a human life. Having lost a sum that big, it would reflect poorly on _him_ if he couldn't somehow recoup the cost, or at least exact vengeance on whatever organization had paid the kid off to steal from them. The only headscratcher, then, was why the kid was refusing to talk, even as the gash he'd sliced across the child's face was dripping dirty red blood onto the warehouse concrete.

"C'mon, kid," Gonzap said, trying to sound friendly. "Just tell us who paid you to do it. I'll even treat you to dinner if you're good! I just need a name."

No answer. Just another hateful glare, determination in all the wrong places. It was charming, but so, so stupid. No amount of cash was worth risking your life over. Certainly, not whatever this boy was paid.

"Fine, be that way," Gonzap laughed. "Then what should I do next? Cut off a pinkie? How about this. I'll start with a little toe, then go clockwise…"

A bluff, but to sell a bluff, you had to believe it in the moment. He advanced as though he really would - even his grunts were convinced, their grip tightening. For a second, Gonzap saw fear in the little boy's eyes. Would he finally squeal?

But it was soon burned away by an even fiercer gaze than before. The street rat jutted out his chin, curling his lip in a snarl. Dared him to do it. 

Gonzap wavered. And in his hesitation, the lie was cracked in half.

He’d lost.

Fine, fine. He had to respect this kid's guts, honestly. He'd stab the ground between his toes and then have his grunts throw him out. The brat had called their bluff - and even if he hadn't, he'd clearly come with the resolve to die. If that was the case, there was no point torturing him further - just one last display to save some face before they spat him back out onto the Under's streets.

But Gonzap didn't get that far. In a flash of purple and black, an umbreon and espeon jumped down from the rafters, knocking away the two grunts holding Wes in place, circling protectively around him. They hissed and spat and snarled at Snagem, hackles raised, as the child used the umbreon's body to pull himself shakily to his feet.

The glare he gave Gonzap then sent shivers up his spine. 

A curse, he'd thought. A curse had been laid upon him, that day, that moment, when he'd reached out for that glittering gold.

* * *

"Long time no see, boss," Wes said. "Move."

In front of him, all Gonzap could see was that little boy he'd taken in all those years ago - skinny and malnourished, but stubbornly clinging onto his baby fat, a caged, wild animal. Now he was calm, cool, and composed, but that old, naked hatred still burned in his eyes. It only made Gonzap grin wider. He was proud - fiercely proud - of the monster he'd raised.

"Come on, you could at least pretend to be happy to see your old man."

"You and I got no relation," Wes said, coldly. "My business is with that traitor. Are you dumb enough to get in my way?"

"Gyahaha! Seems like I’m going senile. How’d you ever convince me to do a job this stupid, eh?" 

“Ah, uh,” Silva stammered. 

Gonzap rolled his eyes, then lowered his stance. "I owe you a beatin' besides, Wes."

"Suit yourself," Wes said, turning away, disinterested. 

At that moment, a tingle on the hairs on the back of his neck sent Gonzap reacting before he could think, grabbing Silva and dashing to the side to avoid the blast that was aimed squarely at where they'd been standing.

Gonzap looked up to see the snarling visage of Wes's espeon, where it had circled around in the shadows with a thief's silent stalk. If it was there, the black one was not far behind. Faster than Gonzap could spot it, his armaldo did, and it rushed in to deflect the fangs that had been aiming for Gonzap’s windpipe. 

Back when Wes was a whelp in Snagem, his ‘eons’ movements were brutal and crude. Without losing any of their deadly edge, they’d become graceful - dodging all his armaldo’s counters, landing on all fours.

How vicious those two eevees had become, that they weren't even shadow pokémon, and yet so willing to go for a human's throat.

Gonzap bared his teeth in response to their snarls. He gave a snap of his fingers, a signal for his armaldo and granbull to attack - and then, he ran away.

To sell a bluff, you needed to believe it. He wanted nothing more than to teach Wes a lesson. To turn around and bash his former protégé's face in. That was his pride as Team Snagem's boss; that was his duty as his family's avenger.

But there were bigger fish to fry. And Gonzap hadn't reigned supreme over the country's pokémon black market because he was a fool who chased personal vendettas over loftier goals.

He could not win against Wes when he was carrying deadweight under his arm. He could not win against Wes if he did not give it his all and then some. To be honest, he probably couldn't win against Wes at all.

But if he could just escape this damn forest -

A metallic screech and his sharpened instincts stopped him just short of a flurry of steel, razorblade feathers. Glinting cold blue in the moonlight, a skarmory - _his_ skarmory - landed before him, readying another barrage.

It did not recognize him. It stared forward with empty eyes.

Gonzap shouted a curse and turned tail to run the other way. If he could reach his belt, he could send out a counter - but he felt the air change, a shiver along his skin, and he once more just barely dodged out of the way of an attack - a slash of wind that left deep cuts in the tree bark he'd been leaning against - aiming for his throat. Through the forest, he saw a flitting white bird - a togetic, and probably a shadow pokémon to boot, its normally graceful movements stiff, robotic, and ugly.

He could hardly orient himself before the skarmory was upon him again, its claws tearing at the edges of his jacket. 

Like that, he was pushed back further and further away from the smuggling route. He could feel himself losing ground with every air slash, every steel wing flung his way. Relentlessly, the two birds attacked - no time to breathe, barely enough time to dodge - and it wasn't long before his faltering stamina couldn't keep up anymore. His body became covered in two, four, eight, a dozen shallow, painful cuts, his legs stumbling against the tree roots. 

"Fuck!" he shouted, again and again. He could also feel his grip on Silva slowly slipping. 

With one final ram of his skarmory's unyielding metal head, he was shoved backwards onto the flat stone tile surrounding the relic shrine. He felt his skull crack against the weathered rock, his skin scrape against the ragged stone.

Wes was waiting for him there, umbreon and espeon at his side. Armaldo and granbull lay in a crumpled, unconscious heap a few feet away.

"You go for your pokéballs," Wes said, coldly, "you lose your hand."

Indeed, skarmory was at the ready, eyeing him with empty eyes. Gonzap curled his hands into fists, but didn’t risk his wrists.

"W-Wes," Silva begged, in a simpering, pathetic tone. "Look, we - "

"Shut up," Wes commanded, and that coward wilted. Gonzap growled and stood, yanking Silva up after him, careful not to let his hand stray too close to his belt as he backed away from the shadow pokémon.

"Hand over the time flute and I make this quick," Wes said, coolly. "Anything else, and I make this messy."

"Is this really what you've been reduced to, Wes?"

Gonzap turned around slowly, looked him dead in the eyes. "You wanna know what you look like to me?"

No response. Gonzap sneered.

"A pretty little lapdog."

"Five-second countdown," Wes said, ignoring him. "Five."

"And you'll never be anything more," Gonzap continued. "You're a goddamn rat from root to tip, Wes!"

"Four." The skarmory took a step closer, its wings bristling. Wes meant his threat - of this, Gonzap was sure. Even as Silva shrank against him, he bared his teeth. If these were to be his last words, he'd make them count; if this was his last stand, he'd go down swinging.

"Where’d that proud little boy of mine go? All I see in front of me is a lickspittle." His throat hurt from the straining. "You hear that? You've lived your whole damn life licking the sand off my boots, and the only thing that's changed is who's wearing them!"

"Three."

Gonzap laughed. "What, too good for your old man, now that you've got a fancy title and shiny clothes? You're an unwanted child, you're trash, and that's all you'll ever be!"

"Two."

"But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"One."

Gonzap raised his fists and waited.

But the next sound wasn't, as he expected, the sharp steel screech of his skarmory's feathers, or the whistling sound of togetic's air blade.

It was a voice, clear like a bell, that rang out through the night like it was chasing the chill away. It was that girl, who must have followed them from the rendezvous point, even though that was the stupidest thing she could have done. Just like always, risking everything on a gamble that paid no dividends. 

"Wes."

A long silence. Gonzap opened his eyes, and saw a sight he never thought he'd see - that Wes, that cold, intolerant child - with an expression like someone had stabbed him. 

Like they had twisted the knife.

Like he was hurt.

"...Rui."

* * *

Run.

Run away from here.

At least let me save a single thing.

* * *

"Wes," Rui said his name again, with that crystal-clear voice. "Don't do it. Please."

She was just like he remembered her - that naive expression that revealed everything, that blazing orange hair, those clear blue eyes that still looked at him like he was precious to her. Only one thought was ringing through his head, again and again, as he wavered, as he swayed on his feet.

"Why are you here?"

Why was she still in this godforsaken region? Why did she have to make an appearance here and now? Why did she have to get in his way - in this circumstance, where he wasn't able to save her again?

He stalked over to her with long, angry strides. She didn't flinch or cower as he approached, not even as he grabbed her too-tight by the shoulders - what was he supposed to make of that? 

"Why did you stay? Why didn't you escape from here?"

"I couldn't leave you behind."

His 'eons looked up at him, mirroring his faltering heart, unsure of what to do. The peanut gallery was staring. And Rui was telling the truth.

Couldn't leave him behind? What worth did he have to her or anyone else at all? He almost wanted to laugh at how stupid - how _stupid_ that decision was. It hadn’t been worth it. He wasn’t worth it.

He could feel his too-taut body trembling, his fingers digging into her skin. He couldn't speak. Didn't even know what he could say: to have gotten this far, she had to know about how she'd been "killed" by him. How, even when he was trying, his hands only knew how to break.

"Wes, come with us," she said, her eyes fierce and warm as she forced herself to smile through the pain of his vicegrip. She placed a hand on his. "Come join the Kid's Grid. We can beat Cipher together."

No, no, no. 

Lugia's breath - where it fell, it boomed. Storms gathered on its wings. Even when it was caged, strapped to the slab, its every struggle sent tremors through the island.

"You can't win," he said, wrenching the words out of his hoarse, constricted throat. "You don't even realize it. You can't win."

A cold, unfeeling voice let out a laugh that had no humor. All of them turned to look - at the footsteps, perfectly even, that echoed against the stone, at the eyes that glinted in the darkness of a cloud drifting over the moon. The chill immediately set into their bones, seeped through their clothes - like poison. Like poison.

"That's right, Wes," Nascour said, the night air freezing over as he made his appearance. He leered at them, at Wes's foolish self still clinging to Rui's shoulders. 

"They _can't_ win. But neither can you, it seems." 

He smiled - a gentle smile with nothing behind it at all. "The way that you're holding onto that girl is unsightly. Is this what you called me in to see?"

Wes grit his teeth. He swallowed his feelings, like they were broken glass. Rui startled when he raised his head again, his expression cold and empty. She tried to squirm out of his grip, but he caught her by the front of her shirt.

"Sorry, boss," Wes said. "I can handle it from here."

"No need," Nascour sighed, lightly. "I can tell from the foolish expression you were showing that you cannot be trusted with this disposal."

Disciplinary action would be required. Wes swallowed and it felt raw. 

"Leave the girl here," Nascour ordered. "Then return to HQ. We will deal with you later."

"Wes, please," Rui whispered, one last time, and it sounded hollow and empty to his ears. What was the difference between this and any poor sucker begging for their lives, which he had ignored over and over again? But he couldn't look her in the eye - couldn't, because he knew the sincerity there would only make him waver again.

"...Sorry," he said. It felt like he was carving out a chunk of himself. He tossed her to the ground. It felt like he was bleeding.

He turned around and left, his pokémon following after him. Through the echoing cavern. Through the verdant hills. Out to where his bike was parked, between the grass and the sand.

He told himself he wouldn't look back, but he'd caught a glimpse anyway, of hurt and betrayal and fear on Rui's face. This was the last time he'd ever see her again, wasn't it? It was that thought that kept him from turning the engine, his hand trembling so much he couldn't even fit the key in the ignition.

This was the last time he'd ever see her again.

He'd failed. He'd failed. He'd failed.

Metal scraped against metal. He'd failed. He was useless. He was - unable to do a single thing, and yet, by his hands, everything he'd ever touched crumbled and withered away.

He was…

A sound suddenly snapped him to attention. A beautiful, somber melody - one that echoed in his heart like a memory long-forgotten. In the open air, the sound of it carried as if picked up by the wind and soil. The world froze as all ears turned to listen. 

The Time Flute had been played...and the blinding green glow of Celebi's light washed Agate in a warm, mystical power.

And Wes, sent flying, was no longer able to enter its barrier.

* * *

Rui had spent her childhood alternating between the peaceful town of Cherrygrove and the hearth of her grandparents’ home in Agate. With the creaking sound of her grandmother’s rocking chair, which had been hand-carved out of agate wood, the whorls still stained with moss-green, and the cool breeze that carried with it the scent of water, of life.

"Once upon a time," Beluh had said to her one day, as she sat on her grandmother’s lap, atop a dress woven the traditional way, in rainbow colors. "Once upon a time, the land was levied with a great and terrible curse. At that time, Celebi appeared to drive it away, although the darkness was too great, and it could only be pushed back..."

Rui had gazed up at her with big, curious eyes. "Celery?" she asked.

Beluh laughed. "No, dearie. Celebi. Our guardian spirit, who resides in the shrine deep within our town. Remember? We paid tribute a few days ago."

Rui frowned. "That weird stack of rocks?"

"Relic Shrine," Beluh corrected. "The responsibility of watching over it has fallen upon the shoulders of our family for generations. My mother, and her mother before her."

"Then, me too, one day?"

"Well, your father decided to up and move away, like most of the youngsters in this town," Beluh sighed. "So you only have to if you want to, dear."

She sparkled. "If I do, will I get to live with grandma and grandpa every day?"

Beluh smiled and patted her head. "Yes, dear."

"And will I get to see Celebi also?"

"No one has seen Celebi in more than a hundred years," Beluh said. "But who knows, Rui? Perhaps you will be the first. If your heart is pure...I am sure Celebi will look favorably upon you."

* * *

" - Do you have any last words, Wes?"

So this was how Skrub had felt, condemned to the chopping block. Skrub was cowering then - but that was not what was coiling in the pit of Wes's stomach.

The cold of fear had never been to him a sweat or shiver. It had always been a dull, frigid blade tearing his organs apart. And he'd always met it head-on, grasping at the edges.

He was not so obedient that he could be resigned to his fate. 

He stepped forward -

* * *

While Nascour handled the logistics and day-to-day functioning of the Orre branch, it was a man named Evice who stood at the top. He, like Venus, commanded one of the cornerstones of the region - she, the seedy underbelly; he, the sparkling world of the rich, descendents of the corporation surveyors who had stayed safe in their glittering white city, behind a wall of marble and lime, from the riots and bloodshed and starvation and thirst.

Ardos personally found him distasteful, as he found all the poisoned to be. They were - grotesquely afflicted by the shadow crystal’s power, their eyes too-wide and unblinking. They weren’t even human anymore...and almost always threw themselves into a grisly fate, unable to value even their own lives. How many had walked away from the Cipher mines in such a way…?

Evice was no special man before he was assigned to the excavation. Certainly, he was more competent now, but in his heartless words, Ardos could still hear the simple, simpering buffoon that had been good for little else but praising his father.

And in front of him was Wes, a child with brittle bones and sharp eyes, whom Ardos had taken a special liking to.

Wes was an intelligent child, Ardos thought. That he'd made it this far despite his youth was charming; even his stiff inability to show proper respect was endearing, in the same way a pokémon was cuter when it acted spoiled. 

Wes had lost control of Agate. He'd lost the time flute to a spy. And as if his sins weren't piled high enough, he'd even managed to lose Nascour, who had not been able to contact them ever since Celebi's barrier had sealed Agate away. Certainly, Wes had earned whatever end it was that Cipher had in store for him - talented employees had been thrown away for less.

"Do you have any last words, Wes?" Evice asked, and in that moment, Ardos felt the air change. The temperature dropped, his hair stood on end. There was a glint in Wes's eyes that said he was starving.

"Is he insane?" Eldes breathed, beside him. So he felt it too, did he? That Wes had unsheathed his blade. Bared his teeth, with fangs full of venom.

He intended to take them all on or die trying.

Where his foolish brother was reaching for his belt, Ardos found himself breaking into a terrible, unbearable grin. What was this? What was this? Wouldn't it be such a shame to lose a specimen so... _interesting_ as this? So brazen, so thrilling, so _brave?_

He stood, standing in front of his brother, who did not deserve the prize Ardos had set his sights on first.

"Wait," he said, breaking the heavy silence of Wes's murderous intent. The boy levied his sharp, slavering gaze on Ardos, and he felt chills up his spine. What a worthy talent to foster.

"If the Orre branch has no more use for the boy," he said, smiling from ear to ear, "then give him to me."


	6. Doomed to repeat it.

Wes's admin outfit was a dull, muddy red. The first thing Ardos did when he'd taken Wes in as his own personal attendant was change him into something blue, Ardos's color - not that Wes cared either way, since the red was an arbitrary decision in the first place. But that was the pettiness that characterized Ardos, a man that Wes could no longer go against.

The second command Ardos had made was for him to stop bleaching his hair. He liked his food organic and free-range, he liked it without preservatives and artificial coloring. In the same way, he found Wes's gold-streaked, grim-reaper hair charming.

And third, Wes was to stop wearing the visor that had been synonymous with his name since he rose to admin level. This left his sharp gaze naked and raw, made him all the more aware of how unguarded he had become.

To all of these stupid and frivolous commands, Wes just bowed his head with a stiff "yes, boss."

It was not Ardos he was obeying. It was Ardos's father, Greevil, who had signed off on Wes's new role as a pet for his son to keep - Greevil, who oversaw Lugia's shadowfication - the XD project - with a wide, cheerful grin on his face.

It was Greevil, with Verich Mining Co.'s stranglehold over the Orrean ports, who controlled the region's imports and exports. Greevil, whose underling Evice ruled Phenac as mayor, who had enough clout to guarantee one of his admins become the region's governer. Greevil, who controlled the mining towns, the Under, the earth and wind and money itself, who sat above the clouds, and Wes - reduced to crawling on the ground, face in the sand - was not able to reach him.

This was technically a promotion - his role was untouchable now. He'd been vaulted over the heads of the Orre branch, past the HQ admins - so long as Ardos was giving the order, Wes's word was law. But that was precisely the problem: he was Ardos's ventriloquist's dummy, and everyone knew that he had no muscle on his bone.

Lickspittle. Lapdog. Now, more than he'd ever been.

To this stupid and frivolous set of circumstances, he could only bow his head with a stiff "yes, boss."

In the dark, his 'eons put up with his too-tight grip, licking his trembling expression.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was an idiot human boy.

One who fed them first, even when his own body was bent with hunger. One who threw himself between them and the humans who smelled like smoke and alcohol, the ones who kicked and laughed if they got too close. One whose body was covered in scars and burns because, like he was trying to toughen his skin, he got himself hurt, over and over again.

This human was weak. He was fearful and wary, because - like the two of them - he knew the terror of slow starvation, the desolation of bad hunts and unforgiving territory. Knew what it was like to have fingers jabbed within biting distance, the feel of bones between his teeth. And was too stupid to cut away the weak, the injured - too stupid to learn how not to care. 

Their littlest brother was too kind-hearted. Despite his gentle nature, he was forced to bare his fangs again and again - until his skin was leathery and baked by the sun, until his bony little arms were covered in lean, uncompromising muscle, until his face was drained of its expression.

To the boy who had shared with them his food even when it was clear he had so little, the least they could do was share their body heat with him. And it was frustrating that, even now, that was all they could do. That they could not do more for their trembling brother.

So once more, he clutched at them, the only human they'd ever let get this close. Once more, they licked at him, praying they'd chase his nightmares away. And once more, they wondered where his talk of the sun and sky and horizon went...because at a word, given the order, they were ready to run with him until they reached that mystical place. 

Somewhere where food was plentiful, where the water ran sweet, where the wind blew warm and easy and their gentle little brother didn't have to fight anymore.

Surely, such a place must exist...just past the horizon, past the dawn and dusk, across the desert sands. Surely...

* * *

"Grandpa! Grandma!"

Rui flung herself into their arms. They looked skinny and haggard, weary and worn-down from the Agate occupation, but they were alive - and so was she. 

"Rui," Beluh breathed into her hair. "You're alive."

"Yeah," she said, squeezing tightly. "I'm sorry I took so long to get here."

* * *

"I think," Venus said, because once again it was only her, Ein, and Miror at the table, "that dear Master Ardos is playing with fire. As I am fond of gambling, who would like to start a pot?"

"On whether or not he gets burned?" Ein asked.

"On whether or not we _all_ do."

* * *

Deep beneath Agate, in one of the myriad hidden tunnels, was a big steel cage. The cavern was under continuous guard, two members of the Kid's Grid posted at the entrance - not there to stop what was being kept inside from escaping, but so that one could buy the other one time to warn the town.

Even Rui, who had befriended many of the captured peons, found herself shaken up when she looked at him. He was cloaked - smothered - in the same black aura as shadow pokémon, and it was suffocating - it reached toward her. Every time she saw him, she wanted to cry.

But that was why she had to see him. Because everyone else had given up on him - because everyone else was afraid of him - because she wanted to believe in him.

She wasn't wrong to have believed in Wes. She'd prove it by believing in Nascour, by believing in herself.

So she slapped her cheeks, put on her brave face, and journeyed into the depths of the earth.

As always, he looked at her with a smile that had no sentiment behind it. It was a malicious emptiness - a greedy void. She suppressed a shiver and set his meal down between them, which Nascour ignored, as usual, because it wasn't _food_ that that emptiness wanted to devour.

"Welcome back," he said, feigning geniality. "So sorry for the unsightly state of my abode."

She stared at him, biting her lip. Poisoned. That was the word they had for him - heartless, an empty shell, a monster.

"Why are you working for Cipher?" she finally asked. Nascour tilted his head, regarding her with a faint derision in his eyes, as if chiding her for asking a stupid question.

"They are my employers," he answered. 

Empty words, an empty sentiment. "No, I meant - does working there make you happy? What do you get out of it?"

"Do you not understand?" Nascour said, slowly. "They are my employers. I am their employee."

"There's no other reason?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch. "There's really no reason?"

"Let me infer something," Nascour said, "based on how our usually competent Wes became so inept around you. You want to free him."

Stiffly, she nodded.

"Then it's hopeless. It's already too late for him. The punishment for his failures will be severe, even without me there."

"It's not too late," she challenged, "because he's still working there."

"Is he, now." He grinned. "Pity, then. He has even been stripped of the freedom to die."

His smile suddenly dropped, shattering like the weak veneer of geniality that it was. He levied cold eyes on her, ones without anything behind them.

"Nothing will be salvaged. Nothing will be saved. There is no hope, there is no future, there is no ending. Not for me, not for him, not for you."

Rui swallowed, then, tentatively, reached for the cage bars.

"Stupid girl," Nascour said, although he didn't move. "Why are you coming closer?"

"You and Wes," Rui said, faltered. She took a deep breath in, then looked him in the eye. "When I first met Wes, he also tried to scare me off. Nascour, I want to believe that people can be good to other people. I want to believe that people can change."

"People cannot change."

"People can change," she affirmed. " Even if no one else believes me. If you think I'm wrong, then prove it!"

Slowly, Nascour unfolded his body, pulled himself up to the cage bars. His hand - freezing cold - reached through the metal and wrapped around her neck - not tightly enough to injure, but stiff enough to squeeze, his cold eyes regarding her bravery as if testing whether or not it was real.

"Stupid girl," he said again. "Do you think you can save a single thing?"

"Yes. I can save whatever I want."

A second hand came to join the first.

"Do you think you can prevent your own death here at my hands?"

If anything, she straightened up at that. Proud, and brave, and foolish.

"That's right," she said, because if she couldn't do at least this much, for the Wes who risked his neck for her, then what right did she have to claim she would free him? "Because I believe I can save you," she said, to Nascour in front of her, and to Wes, far away.

"...Stupid girl," Nascour repeated.

Then he squeezed - his hands clenched like vices, closing in on her windpipe. When her body realized it couldn't breathe, on autopilot, it tried to panic - her hands flying to Nascour's wrists, her vision dimming as she gagged and only barely kept herself from bucking and flailing to escape his grasp.

He really might kill her. That thought did enter her mind, amidst the panic, oddly calm and cool. He really might just strangle her to death.

But she kept her eyes open, trained on his. This was her conviction. Of what other use was she than this? To believe in those around her, to help them believe in themselves. She had to stand firm here, because if she could not, then that was as far as her conviction could go.

And eventually...Nascour's grip began to grow weaker. Eventually, he let go.

She fell slack against the ground, her body heaving outside of her control as it took oxygen in as fast as it could. She wasn't proud of how ugly she must have looked, her throat burning, a bruise clearly forming around her neck - but she was alive, and in front of her sat Nascour, who had let her live.

He stared at her for a second, then turned to gaze out the cavern, toward the blue sky.

"We used to reside in Phenac," Nascour said. "My father, Evice, who had overseen projects in the subways of the Under, was approached by Greevil Verich to oversee the excavation of an archeological site. After a month of working there, the two of us fell ill. And that illness stole something away from us…"

He turned his eyes on her, searching. His voice, still empty, suddenly sounded lost. "What did we lose…? Foolish girl, answer me. What did we lose? What did we lose, down in Cipher's mines?"

To that, she had no verbal answer. Nothing could put into words what she wanted to say; nothing could convey the deep ache in her heart, that feeling of wanting to cry. So instead she dragged herself up back onto her knees. She shuffled up to the cage bars, reached through them, and hugged Nascour's cold and empty body as tightly as she could. His emotionless expression remained so, but his frame was pliant, did not resist.

"What's this?" he asked.

And she answered, even though answering through her broken voice was brutally painful. The same words that had saved her, once.

"Something to make you feel human," she said.

* * *

Once upon a time, the land was lush and green and beautiful. In that time, there was a lake filled with silver and gold, whose surface was so calm it reflected the sky like a mirror.

She had told this story a thousand times. After she came home, broken and bruised, smelling of smoke and alcohol, after she stared at herself in the cracked mirror in the dim, flickering light, she'd curl up on her ratty mattress and watch Wes work through a yellowed, coffee-stained notebook, as he sounded out words and letters and struggled with multiplication.

Then she'd bring him into bed with her - because there was only one bed, one blanket - and tell him a story.

(She said she repeated them so she wouldn't forget them - and sometimes she would cry. And hidden in her closet was a book of photos of people Wes didn't recognize, set against the backdrop of the blue sky, and he thought it wasn't the stories she was trying not to forget, but the feel of the wind, the warmth of the sun, the smell of the sand and the crashing of the waves, which were always so vivid every time they fell out of her mouth.)

So the desert was once lush and green. Even though he didn't really understand what that meant, he closed his eyes and pretended he did, feeling warm by the way she described them. There was a lake, filled with gold and silver, calm like a mirror, and the desert was lush and green.

"One day, the gold-red bird of the sun began to boast. He said, 'I am the most exalted by the people. See how they honor me with gifts of gold that far outnumber your gifts of silver. This is because I bring the sun every day, and so every day the people are grateful.'

"Hearing this, the silver-blue bird of the rain became unhappy. It thought to itself that its twin's words were true, that there was that much more gold than silver in the lake. And so, the bird of the rains thought that if it sent the rains every day, like its twin brought with it the sun, then perhaps it would be worshiped in the same way.

"And so for seven days and nights it rained. The plants began to drown under the great deluge. The crops began to fail. Finally, the people prayed to the bird of silver to stop. They slipped a great amount of silver into the lake to appease it.

"The bird of rain, pleased, turned to boast to its twin. 'You see,' it cried. 'The people desire the rain, for even when I brought it sporadically, they offered me nearly as much silver as you had gold. Now that I have brought it every day, as you do the sun, see how much more tribute they pay!' 

"Its twin, not to be outdone, then proposed a challenge. They would take turns bringing only the sun, or only the rain, and would see which one would warrant a greater offering to the mirror lake.

"So for a passing of the moon, the sun baked the land until the people were dying of thirst. And then for the next passing of the moon, it would rain until the earth became mud and swallowed the foundations of the buildings, washing everything away to the sea.

"No amount of gold and silver was ever enough. The people had no solution. They begged the chief and matriarch to act…"

* * *

"Your counsel is unwanted!" Ardos shouted at his brother, his voice accompanied by the flapping of his robes. "I have told you time and time again that Wes is _my_ subordinate and not to come too close. And yet you _insist_ on offering him your company every time you think I am not watching. What is the meaning of this?"

"Ardos, please," Eldes said, his expression showing that even his seemingly infinite patience was being tried by his brother's tantrum. "I don't mean any harm, you know this. I simply noticed he hasn't eaten yet today, so - "

Ardos shouted something at him again, and Wes just looked on, letting them argue about him like he wasn't there. The muffin Eldes had offered him sat untouched on the table, because Wes knew trouble when he saw it. Right on cue, as if summoned by the smell, Ardos had turned up just in time to see Eldes trying to feed the stray.

If Wes still had it in him to resent, then maybe he'd resent Eldes. The man was as kind as he was strong, and yet, his actions were all ineffectual and weak, his good intentions amounting either to nothing at all or else - like now - hell.

Eldes, the favored child, could not even see what this argument was about. It wasn't about Wes. He wasn't even a factor, really. It was about Greevil giving Eldes the first pick, earlier this morning, from the newest batch of shadow pokémon, while Ardos had watched with a burning envy. Even now, as he was arguing, Ardos wasn't even looking at Wes - because Wes wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that big brother Eldes, who always got what he wanted, was yet again trying to steal something away from him.

In the months since Wes had been here, he'd become unhappily familiar with the family's dysfunctions. 

With how Greevil had lost track of what mattered to him in pursuit of gold and power, how petty and trifling all his motivations were - getting back at the family that had disowned him, buying another yacht, another house, another island, another region. 

With the bitter and rueful and useless expressions Eldes made whenever he received his orders, heard about the improvements Lovrina was making to the shadowfication process, learned of another cruel trick to the Orre branch's administrative style. Expressions that never lead to anything. Expressions that failed in every way to amount to anything at all.

And with Ardos, a jealous and small-hearted man, little more than a child throwing tantrums that things weren’t going his way. 

Wes hated them all. They made his skin crawl, set his teeth on edge; he hated the way Greevil tolerated him like Ardos's new pet, the way Eldes kept trying to approach him with offerings and gifts as though he'd find some absolution for his sins by being kind to a mangy stray, the way Ardos dragged him around to every meeting, every dinner, every inspection, and he was forced to hang around in Ardos's periphery like he was a bird on his shoulder.

Clipped wings - the shadow swellow Ardos had gifted him had evidence of such. They'd mostly grown out by the time Wes got his hands on it, but all the same, his practiced Snagem eyes could see the telltale marks on the down, flat edges where blades had been taken to the quill.

His roots were growing out, the bleached tips giving way to dark umber, and even now they flashed in the sunlight. He didn't know who he was anymore.

What was Wes? Was he gold eyes and gold hair? Was he bleached blond with a mirrored visor? Was he a Cipher admin, team Snagem's ace, or a mangy street rat trying not to starve between paydays? 

When was the last time he belonged to himself? When was the last time he knew what his own face looked like?

He thought of his mother, staring herself down in the mirror.

Once the fight was over - once Eldes had been chased away - Ardos stalked up to him with angry, flashing eyes.

"Stand up!" he ordered, and Wes complied. Before he could assume his usual stance, Ardos cracked a hand across his cheek. He stumbled, but did not fall, kept his eyes trained to the floor, because his sharp gaze - for all that Ardos refused to let him cover it up - would only anger his master more.

"You are _not_ to speak with Eldes," Ardos snarled. "How many times have I told you?"

Thirteen, counting this one, starting from the first time Ardos asked. Wes kept track. He couldn't help but keep track of every indignation he suffered, every time he was tempted to simply reach out - and _bite_.

"Sorry, boss," he said, instead. 

"'Sorry, boss'! Is that all you can say? Show some god damned backbone every once in a while, you - !"

Growling, he shoved Wes backwards, against the wall. Even though Wes knew a million ways to fight back, he could only let himself be battered around like a sandbag. The hits were, after all, laughably ineffectual - Ardos didn't know how to _hurt_ someone. 

But Greevil was a petty man, and at his command were pokémon Wes had not been able to defeat, not even when Greevil was taking it easy, commenting with that wide grin that Wes was 'quite strong for his age.'

Wes's windpipe was being crushed to the wall by hands he could snap in half. Weak, weak! He strained not to bare his teeth and sink them into bony flesh, the taste of blood in his mouth, the roar of desert winds in his ears.

If he were to bite then he would break. Bones and ligaments and cartilage tearing. 

But then what would he do?

He was a useless, unwanted, unworthy, and cursed, cursed child. 

And all he could do was tally up those curses, one after another, scraping them out of the hollow in his chest cavity.

* * *

"And so," Beluh said to Rui, as she sat lulled half-asleep by the warmth of the fire and the creaking of the wheelchair, "the king and the queen were asked to do something about the warring spirits of rain and sun. The queen, in her infinite mercy, went to each spirit in turn, falling to her knees and begging for them to stop.

"'Please listen to our cries,' she beseeched them. 'The land is becoming barren. The crops will not grow, the flowers will not bloom, the rivers flood or do not flow at all. We who are at your mercy beg for you to stop.'

"But they did not listen. What was a single mortal voice in a battle between gods? And so the queen tried again.

"'Great spirits of the sun and rain,' she said. 'The two of you are both necessary; neither is greater than the other. The earth cannot flourish without both the rain to nurture it and the sun to warm it. You are both of equal importance.'

"But they did not listen. What was a single mortal voice in a battle between gods? But she tried again. She had to, for her people were crying out, they had no solution.

"But this time, before she could open her mouth, a great ball of ice and a great tongue of flame both came to lash out at her. The great spirits' powers were too strong, and they were too embroiled in their rivalry, to notice as she fell dead at the base of the mountain."

* * *

By Celebi's power, a shadow pokémon could be purified. Through the warmth of an endless and living love, they recalled their happiest and saddest moments, all their joys and sorrows, their comfort, their fear, their myriad flaws...their very selves, their very being. Everything that constituted being alive.

The first time Rui had seen it happen, she'd cried, she'd shed tears alongside the bayleef who was grieving the time it had lost. Tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of pity. It was a wondrous, terrible thing.

Celebi itself rarely made an appearance, and only to Rui, when she was alone.

It appeared atop the Relic Shrine, a stack of semicircular grey stone that stood slightly higher than she did, which looked nothing like the shrines in Rui's native Johto. She knew now that that was because it had a different meaning - one that was infinitely more somber and sad.

Celebi said nothing and disappeared when she got too close, but would sometimes look at her with a deep understanding in its clear blue eyes. It, too, had something it wanted to save. It, too, lacked power - only able to purify what it could reach in this sacred place.

Her grandparents had rallied the town together, everyone who remembered anything about this old town, built into the very roots of the giant trees that stretched across the mountainsides. And together, piecemeal, they uncovered the grand and sorrowful destiny that had once been bestowed upon them, that had been buried by sand and the lust for gold, that had almost disappeared in the mass exodus from this region to greener pastures.

Once upon a time, a great shadow was cast upon this land...it spread across the sand like a sickness, blighted the very earth and soil itself. 

And here, as if atoning, as if apologizing, was the cure. Too far away to do anything...too weak to combat the threat, and yet, unable to yield.

"You cannot win," Nascour told her. "There are shadow pokémon now being made that resist purification. They will destroy you. Give up, while you can still choose the way in which you die."

And Rui, because she had noticed the small things that gave Nascour away - the way he perked up and stood to attention when he heard her footsteps approaching - just smiled at him, because sorrow and joy were intermingled, and happiness and sadness were the same.

"Thank you for worrying about me," she said. 

* * *

"In those times," his mother said, "graves were still built with half-circular stones, stacked up so that the wind would whistle through their cuts when it passed by and whole gravesites would sing. Even death, back then, was beautiful. Orre was once a beautiful place to live.

"It was underneath one of these singing graves that the chief buried his wife. He travelled many days and nights, through both endless rain and endless sun, to find even a single patch of green left in his land. He found it in the remotest corner, tucked away next to the mountains, so far away that the warring of the great birds of the sun and sky could not reach it. And there, he buried her and built her a grave.

"Then, he returned to his people, who had scattered, like he did, to the three corners of the region: the coastline, the mountains, and the forest left untouched. There was no one left in the once-flourishing city. There were only abandoned stone buildings, whose roofs had been scoured away, whose foundations lay in rubble. There were no more plants, only earth, cracked into sand by the rain and the sun. Even the lake, which once reflected the sky like a mirror, lay barren and empty, yet another part of the featureless wasteland, all that remained of it the lifeless gold and silver rendered tarnished and dull by the dust.

"The gold and silver that had started it all. That had destroyed the land, had scattered the people, that had killed his beloved. And this was where he’d end it…”

* * *

Five years after he betrayed Snagem, twelve years after he'd first been collared, thirteen years after he'd been thrown onto the street, and twenty-two years after he was born and his mocking life was set into motion, Wes came to realize how utterly, utterly foolish he'd been. 

"My brother," Ardos began. It always started like this - his brother this, his brother that. Wes was sick of it. He was sick of it. "My brother said that we were too reliant on our shadow pokémon. Said that it was making us weak. _Weak!"_

Wes had been weak until the end.

"He always wins at the last moment using some insidious, cowardly trick - always, something insidious and cowardly. And he thinks that gives him the right to call me - to call _our father_ \- weak?"

Until the very end, he hadn't been able to do a single thing.

"What 'bonds between trainer and pokémon'! What 'trust,' what 'friendship;' can he say that with a straight face when it is the shadow pokémon project that puts food on his table? Can he say that when he earnestly utilizes shadow pokémon himself?"

Wes nodded along. Because, yes. In the end, those stupid things - trust and friendship and bonds - mattered not at all. They mattered not at all.

So this was what it felt like to be eviscerated and forced to live, to have his entrails hanging out of him and made to walk.

An umbreon and espeon stared up at him with empty, unblinking eyes. They did not recognize him, nor he, them. They were strangers to each other. They were strangers to themselves. They were filled with that unfathomable emptiness that pervaded the hearts and souls of every pokémon that had survived the shadowfication process - living corpses, heartless husks, as good as dead.

Eventually, Ardos's grand monologue came to a close, and with it, Wes's role as his captive audience. With a final flap of his sleeve, and a grandiose exit, Ardos left him alone in a room at the Key Lair, where he stood, still as a statue, for so long the automatic lights shut off around him. Leaving him bathed in a spotlight, casting a pitch black shadow on the floor.

This was where he was supposed to give his own performance, wasn't it? The only actor left on the stage. A monologue, soliloquy.

But when he willed tears to come, willed grief, sorrow, sadness - anything at all - there was nothing. There was simply nothing there.

Since long ago, there had been nothing there, only cold sand...since when had that been the case? Since when had everything else been stolen away? Since when did he lose tears to cry with, lungs to laugh with, a heart beating in his chest?

He should have known better than to think that he could have protected anything.

He should have known better than to think that there was any escape. Not death, not living, not the in-between, either.

He heard the sound of sandstorm winds blowing in his ears, as he stared at his brothers, cloaked in shadow, that had been lost to him.

He remembered his mother's voice, raspy and raw.

Once upon a time, the desert was lush, and green, and beautiful...

* * *

"Wes…could you come here for a moment?"

Obediently, Wes climbed onto his mother's lap. Her hand was in his hair, combing through it slowly. Her own, which was long, and fragile, and dyed black to hide the premature graying, fell over him like a curtain. Her lips were dry, her eyes dull and tired, and bruises lined her bare arms, her shoulders, leftovers from her shift.

"Wes," she murmured, voice cracking. "I'm a fool."

"Yeah."

His blunt answer made her give a weak little laugh, shoulders shaking. 

"You say that like you know."

"I know," Wes said. "The landlord's son told me. Dad ran away. Even though they discounted it for you, it's hard for you to pay for the room. I know."

She let out a long breath, dropping her forehead onto his, feverishly warm. "Sometimes I wonder how I managed to give birth to such a clever little boy," she mumbled. "You memorize everything I teach you so quickly. You even learn things I didn't realize until I was already grown-up...until I'd already made my mistakes and could no longer undo them."

"Until you fucked up," he corrected. She laughed again, a dry and reedy sound.

"You're so cold, even to your own mother...do you love mommy, Wes?"

"Yeah."

"Mommy loves you."

"I know." He paused, then added, "thanks."

She laughed again, a tragic, tinned quality to it. He remembered waiting for her to wipe her make-up off in the mirror, the atmosphere solemn and heavy and thick, the reading and maths homework she'd assigned to him clutched behind his back.

Everything he had was scarce, finite, and fragile. He was probably born knowing that - knowing that there wasn't ever going to be a "better" to the unrest, dissatisfaction in the pit of his soul. Just a different form, a different magnitude, a different color, a different shade. Yes, he knew better back then, just like he should have known better now.

"I'm tired, Wes," she said, with misty eyes. "I'm so tired, Wes. I'm so, so, so tired…"

His mother spoke with soft, significant words.

"Can I tell you a story?" she asked. "One that my mother told me, and that her mother told her, and so on, so on?"

"Yeah. Tell me."

* * *

The doors to the cargo bay slid open with a dry, metallic rattling. The grunt standing guard peered up at him, clearly curious, but too nervous to ask what it was Wes wanted in this particular storehouse, hidden deep in the the Dark.

Wes closed his eyes and looked away.

"Scram," he said, simply. "Anyone asks, it's on my orders."

"Yes sir!"

The peon gave a salute and darted away, leaving Wes alone in the huge, empty metal building, with its rusted steel-plated walls, with its leaking pipes and cracked concrete.

"EXCADRILLING MINING CORP."

The logo, painted on the walls with what was once a bright, proud red, had been defaced by the rioting miners, been scratched away by time. Wasn't it funny? That this abandoned place was once more being used for its original purpose?

All around him were open metal crates, stuffed to overflowing with the gold Cipher had struck all those years ago...and what was mixed in with it.

* * *

"The king lay himself across the dry lakebed, across the gold and silver, facing the sky, where even now the fierce rivalry could be seen. At that moment, he hated the great birds of the sun and the rain. At that moment, he cursed them, cursed them. And, while cursing them, while cursing himself, he drove an obsidian blade through his own heart, and his blood - running black with curses - mixed with the gold and silver and spread throughout the land.

"Where it fell, it crystallized; it grew. A crystal for every lost citizen, for every lost tree, for every lost river. A curse for every tear he'd shed. A curse for every cry he'd wailed. A curse for every grain of sand.

"Curses and curses and curses came flooding out of the king's aching heart, and where they fell, they became stone, mixed in with all the gold and silver in the region.

Beluh smoothed Rui's hair back, her voice soft and full of regrets.

"And we call that crystal, which sprang up out of blood so cursed it turned black, 'heartstone.'"

* * *

The largest heartstone crystal in the room towered above him. It felt as though it was welcoming his approach, its crystal spires like beckoning arms, its eerie, black luster seductively pulling him closer.

Several decades ago, Greevil Verich, with the help of his wife, an archaeologist, had uncovered a massive deposit of gold and silver buried deep in the desert.

Mixed in with the deposit was a strange, black crystal, one that none of the experts it was shown to could identify. An Orre native, like himself, M-18, shadow crystal...heartstone.

The mining operation had been plagued with disaster. Sabotage after sabotage, accident after accident, and worst of all, a sickness that had counted among its victims even Greevil's wife.

He pressed a gloved hand to its flat, polished side. The stone face was freezing cold even through the leather. The chill traveled up his left arm until it reached his heart, and he shivered in its frigid grip.

* * *

"Mom...get out of bed."

He shook her dull and heavy body until she roused. Even just in the way she pulled herself up, there was something deeply, deeply wrong...and it was all the more wrong when she turned glassy, empty eyes on him. Eyes that were no longer the color of his own.

In the dim yellow light, they looked like two flat, black saucers, two holes leading to nowhere.

"Wes," she said, and there was nothing there.

"...Yeah."

Her head tilted to the side. It was like this was her first time seeing him, as if he was a stranger to her, as if he was nothing.

"Do you love mommy?"

"Yeah."

She closed her eyes...and then, slowly, she broke into a gentle, cruel smile.

"Mommy doesn't love you," she said.

Wes stared down at the floor so he wouldn't have to face the truth.

"I know."

"You are...an unfortunate, cursed child," she continued, softly, in the same voice she used to tell him stories, in this distant, wistful tone. "You're such a coldhearted little thing. That's because you were born down here, in the dark, not knowing the sky, the wind, the ocean...nothing at all. When I first held you in my arms, for a moment I thought I wanted to throw you down an empty cavern and pretend you never existed."

Every word squeezed his throat like they were strangling him. 

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know," she said, "I don't remember anymore. I was in pain...so much pain, Wes, for so long...but that's all gone now."

She heaved a sigh, the sound of abandoning all her regrets.

"You look like your father. You're such a hateful thing. You neither laugh, nor do you cry...there's something wrong with you, deeply wrong, and you can tell, too, can't you? You were born out of misfortune."

"...You're always so tired when you come home. I didn't want to bother you."

"You know, Wes? You are the desert. The sandstorms that tear and tear away at a human body, the freezing cold, the hollow expanse. You're barren, and ugly, and empty - and I have never, never loved you."

She cupped a cold hand to his face, turned him up to look at her empty expression.

"You see?" she mumbled. "Even with such cruel words, you don't cry. And you never really loved me, did you?"

"I did," Wes said. 

He didn't need a reason. He just did. Even though she was never there, and even though the times she was, she was distant, and evasive, and insubstantial, he had loved her. The proof was in how her every word stabbed him, even though he'd been expecting them all along.

With her other hand, with so much force that her thin, bony frame shook in the aftermath, with so much strength that Wes went sprawling onto the floor, she cracked her palm across his cheek. Where her hand hit smarted, like frostbite, like it had torn something away from him and it had gone shattering onto the floor. The pieces would never be put together again.

He picked himself up slowly, numbly, the taste of blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. There was so much - so much blood, so much.

"Liar," his mother said. "You're such a liar."

"I wasn't lying."

But she had stopped listening to him, settled against the headboard, staring forward into empty space.

"I think I'll stay in bed today," she said. She closed her eyes again and smiled, as if overtaken by joy. "Because I don't need to worry anymore."

Wes was no longer wanted. He was no longer needed. He was an eyesore, a sunk cost, and there was no place left for him in this world.

"Because nothing hurts anymore."

* * *

He leaned his forehead against the frigid stone.

"It hurts," he admitted to the heartstone. Because the truth was that his heart was as fragile as glass, and it had been shattered, and shattered, and shattered again, and each time the shards dug into his flesh and shredded it. The truth was that he was always coughing up blood with every word, that his every movement was agony, that he had done nothing but make mistakes and forge regrets. 

It hurt. It had been hurting for so long.

He was always, always...

After the chill came numb. It started in his fingers, then travelled to his palm, and then he could feel it creeping up the veins in his wrist. He closed his eyes and wondered what would become of him.

Would he, like his mother, wind up simply wasting away, content in his final days? Maybe. That wouldn't be too cruel. It might be nice, really. She did seem happy, the final time he saw her. She seemed at peace.

But he was a cursed child, unlike her. Maybe in that sense, this was always meant to happen. Maybe he'd been designated by the heartstone at birth to carry its poison inside of him, or maybe he had always been poisoned, and that was why his existence itself was so poisonous and unfortunate.

"It hurts. I'm tired."

The tears he'd shed as he left home for the last time had emptied him of tears entirely. Indeed, maybe that was the moment he had lost the last of his own humanity, what little of that there was.

He couldn't even muster up tears for his brothers staring at him with empty eyes.

He couldn't feel his arm anymore. He could feel the numbness crawling up his shoulder, down his collarbone, across his ribs…

Soon...soon, it wouldn't matter anymore.

Nothing would matter anymore.

Nothing at all…


	7. Day late and dollar short.

"Eldes."

Wes said his name with his usual cold, raspy voice, which sounded like sand caught between rusted metal. Eldes roused from his desk, standing. It was rare - no, unheard of - for Wes to come to him.

"Is something the matter?"

Ardos had clearly been mistreating him behind closed doors. He could sometimes hear the sound of flesh hitting flesh after he was shooed away. Many times, he'd tried to intervene, to petition his father for custody, but it had never worked. Greevil was tired of listening to the fuss regarding the boy, whom he already viewed as a failure after the catastrophic Agate loss...and Wes himself never said anything, never fought back, never protested. Day by day, his golden eyes grew duller...even as, day by day, his body grew more taut.

Right now, with a flat expression, Wes seemed the way he always did.

"Have a battle with me," Wes said. Surprising - because Ardos had banned exactly that, over and over again.

"Er - alright," Eldes said, unnerved. "Right now?"

"Three on three," Wes said, by way of answer. "And if I win, I want you to do something for me, no questions asked."

That sent a cold sweat prickling up his spine. What thoughts swirled around Wes's head were a mystery to him - no matter how often Ardos dragged him around to family dinners and corporate meetings, he hadn't improved even a little at reading Wes's expression.

"I can't agree to that, Wes," he said, nervously reaching for his belt. "I need you to explain."

"You _can_ agree. And you _will."_

Wes took a step forward, and at that moment, the façade came off. At that moment, the Wes standing before him was no longer Ardos's lapdog, but a mad dog, saliva dripping from its snapping teeth. 

Right...it was easy to forget when Ardos dressed him in tailored suits, when Wes was losing matches against Ardos to stroke his ego, but Eldes was _scared_ of Wes. 

When he'd first met the boy, he'd thought the child had talent. That in a few years, he'd put up a good fight, that he probably got his job because he was a bully with administrative skill, like many of the higher-ups at HQ. 

The boy was a quick study, he'd thought, and he'd been wrong.

Wes was a monster. He didn't get his job by being the biggest brute, but the sharpest knife, whetting his blade where no one else could see. For exactly this reason, Eldes thought. For exactly here and now, for a battle with sky-high stakes, which Eldes could no longer guarantee he would win.

"...You'll get your battle," Eldes said, at last. "The loser does as the winner says...that's your condition?"

" _You'll_ do what _I_ ask," Wes answered, not an ounce of forgiveness in his tone. "Because I don't gamble. I _win."_

* * *

It was like every motion, every step, was in perfect sync. Wes wanted to laugh until he cried. Only because he had lost everything had he been freed to fight with all he had...it was never easy until it was the only option he had left.

He crushed Eldes as though there had never been a time when he was inferior. He won because he had nothing left to lose. And it was easy, easy...

* * *

"I'm about to do something that I can't come back from," Wes said, placing two pokéballs in his hands. "Take these to Agate. Ask for Rui. Give them to her. And never let me see you again."

He seemed so small, and hopeless, and sad, even though he'd been the winner of a crushing, one-sided onslaught.

He was a child. A child.

"If you ever show yourself to me again," he said, "I'll make you pay for every bit of sympathy you ever tried to give me."

There was no room for argument. Even if Eldes wanted to, he understood what being the loser in a pokémon battle amongst admins meant. 

But despite Wes's words of wanting to see him go, he clutched onto Eldes's hand with a bruising grip. He curled Eldes's fingers around those pokéballs with deliberate, painful care. He looked like something was being ripped away from him...like he was dying.

He bit his lip and it drew blood. Like he was wrenching them away, his hands dropped to his sides.

"Go," he ordered. And then stood in a pool of harsh fluorescent light, shadows cast deep and dark on his body, as Eldes turned and obeyed.

* * *

Around the campfire, a group of peons were listening quietly as Silva, still going by Valis then, recounted the traditional midnight story for the benefit of those peons from Phenac or Io Port who had never heard it before. Those from Pyrite and the Under listened quietly along, because it could never be engraved on their hearts deeply enough.

"As the miners were carving away with their pickaxes," Valis whispered into the night, "one of them uncovered a hollow in the rock. Something was inside - lumpy, with a strange texture and a bad smell. Bit by bit he started peeling the rock away. 

"When he was done, he still couldn't tell what it was. It was long, wrinkled, and cold. He brought a lamp closer to it and saw two sunken hollows staring back at him - that was when he realized he was staring at a naked corpse. A mummy from the desert had ended up deep in the mines, encased in stone, and its dried-out lips were pulled over its teeth so it looked like it was grinning, and its leathery skin was shrunken against its bones.

"As he moved away, thinking to call his superior, it leapt at him. It grabbed him around the neck with its bony, withered hands. He tried to scream, but it bit at his mouth and tore his lips off. Its fingers gouged red gashes into his skin. The other miners heard the commotion and came rushing in, only to find a shrivelled, screaming corpse pinning their coworker to the ground.

'''I'll tear out your heart!' it screamed. 'I'll tear out your heart!' 

"Panicking, shouting, the most quick-witted among them grabbed a pickaxe that was leaning against the wall and cracked it into the corpse's skull. It gave one final blood-curdling shriek, which sounded like steel scraping against steel. Then its body dissolved into sand.

"The miner that had been attacked had fallen unconscious, his face mangled and bloody. He was carried out from the tunnels and given medical treatment in the doctor's tent. He slept for a whole day, then two. Finally, he awoke, white bandages covering every inch of his body.

"When his friends tried to ask him how he was doing, from behind the bandages they could hear only a muffled reply. He did not turn to look at them, staring straight ahead.

"Everyone in the mines was spooked, but because the corpse had dissolved into sand, leaving no evidence, and because the corporation had a quota to fulfill, the miners were ordered to return to work. For three full days, the one that had been attacked was allowed to rest, but on the fourth day, he, too, was put back to work.

"His appearance was ghastly and terrifying. Parts of his face were still missing, and some of his wounds - while shallow - still had yet to fully close, and they wept and oozed as he worked, and the whole cavern was filled with a rotten stench. The other miners tried to stay away from him, and he didn't seem to notice. He mined, and mumbled to himself, in a voice too quiet to be heard above the cracking of steel on stone.

"A week passed. In that time, the slag began to pile up, and the crates that were supposed to be shipped out had not left the warehouse. Was the foreman being lazy? Shirking his duties? The miners thought at first that it wasn't their business, until Finally, their paycheck was more than a day late. So, together, they went to the foreman's lodge and broke down the door.

"What awaited them was a ghastly sight. The foreman lay dead in the foyer, his skull smashed by a pickaxe and his chest gouged wide open. 

"And then, behind them, they heard footsteps. The final miner to have caught up to the group, the one who had first discovered the shrivelled corpse in the mine, whose face had been ravaged and was even now oozing with pus and blood.

"'I'll tear out your heart,' he said, 'I'll tear out your heart!'"

* * *

"I'm here for shadow Lugia," Wes said, although Ein supposed he couldn't call what was standing before them "Wes" anymore. 

It seemed Ein now owed Venus some money. His mind turned to frivolous thoughts so that his expression would not waver. Maybe this was a matter of time, or maybe this was some grand misfortune that no one could have seen coming. Either way...this was their new reality, and only those who adapted would be allowed to live.

"Even if it's you, Wes, I can't just let you in," Lovrina said, taking a bold stance with arms crossed. She could do so because she was an outlander, because she did not know what was standing before her. Ein would not save her. 

"It's on boss's orders," Wes said, his voice, his countenance, his everything empty. Can't you see, Lovrina, you fool? His eyes, his hair, they were shot through with an endless pitch black. There was nothing left beneath them.

On cue, his shadow skarmory emerged from the doorway behind him, and dropped at her feet a ragged and broken lump. Ein, recognizing who it used to be, pushed his glasses up higher and turned away. Lovrina became pale and took a step back, hands flying up to her mouth.

Wes said nothing, quietly stepping on Ardos's wrist when it reached up for help, grinding it into the steel floor.

"Do I need your orders, too?" he asked. 

Lovrina was at least clever enough to understand what to do next. Even though she was biting her lip, she could still her heart so that her words came out steady.

"Not at all," she said, bowing low so he wouldn't see her crumpling expression. "I'll lead the way. Let me know...what else I can do for you...sir."

* * *

An umbreon and espeon stared up at Eldes with empty, unblinking eyes. 

"Ardos, that fool," Eldes breathed, shaking his head. "That fool, that fool…"

* * *

The dull thud of flesh slamming against soundproofed glass resounded through the room. 

"I said _watch_."

Greevil's nose was bleeding, a red smear on the glass. On the other side was his son, Ardos, strapped to the repurposed shadowfication device. He twisted and screamed in agony, his wrists raw against the restraints. The arm where heartstone would normally be mounted was empty. It was with chilling words that Wes had ordered its removal - "so he can't escape."

To either side, the admins were lined up. They had all been called here today via Greevil's order, only to be met by their once-coworker announcing he'd taken control. One look at him, and Dakim and the other Orre branch admins had fallen into step. They, who had been working so close to the mines, who had avoided the eyes of Nascour for so long, knew exactly what sort of boogeyman they were looking at.

Another slam of flesh against glass. The old man gave a pained wheeze, a strangled cry.

" _Watch_ ," Wes said. 

The admins from HQ, all three of them from foreign regions, looked like they were going to be sick. Dakim wondered if the Orre branch, in their eyes, must all be monsters, for being able to maintain their passive façades even in the face of such a gross spectacle. No, the truth was, the Orre branch admins were near their limits as well. The desert had simply dried out the skin on their faces and fixed their hardened hearts into place.

Ein, at the controls, had folded his arms, peeking at the scene through eyes half-lidded. Miror still held a wide, stiff, thin-lipped grin. Venus kept her eyes trained on Ardos's figure, her mouth hidden behind her veil. And he...well, he was counting the tiles on the floor inside the shadowfication chamber. He was giving a thankful prayer that he could not hear the screaming.

If all they were doing was watching, then it probably would have lost impact after the first minute or so. Because, in the end, terrible things happened in Orre. Simply put, all four of them were thinking the same thought: "better him than me."

But every few seconds, Wes would slam the old man, their former Grand Master, into the glass. It didn't matter if he'd looked away or not. Or perhaps it would be better to say that making sure the old man watched was not the top priority of such an action.

"Don't look away."

"Please, please..."

It was to make sure that, for the entirety of the half-hour of torture, his audience would be paying attention. So that they would carve into their own hearts exactly what fate awaited those who stood in Wes's path.

"Watch."

Watch Ardos suffer. Watch Greevil bleed. Pray to the sky and sea that it would never be you in their place.

There were forty-six tiles on the floor inside the shadowfication chamber. Dakim discarded that number and began to count again, starting from one.

One, two, three…

* * *

"Poisoned," Nascour grinned. "Poisoned, you foolish girl. You cannot save the poisoned. You cannot save me."

"Watch me."

* * *

"Lovrina, dear." 

Venus reached out and caught her by the cheeks as if she were plucking a feather out of the air. Lovrina, who had been running around all in a panic, cute little tears leaking out the corners of her eyes, because she was small and naïve and adorable, and it really made Venus so angry, so angry, which meant that Venus was smiling a gentle smile.

"Don't you only have your own stupidity to blame," she asked, "for not knowing what horrors heartstone can wreak on a human soul?"

Lovrina glared at her. My, my. Lovrina was, as ever, so angry - so cute.

"Did _you_ know?" she asked. Venus laughed and spun Lovrina around, her dress brushing the floor.

"Of course I know, my dear. Of course I did! Why, the Under used to be a sprawling mine, don't you know? And it isn't so uncommon a story for a man to lose his way in the dark tunnels and be spat out _changed._ A _shadow_ of their former selves - it was only you fools, you outlanders, who didn't know, who didn't know! Who looked at Nascour and Evice like curios and never considered that they used to be such kind and gentle souls before the poison seeped into their veins - my dear, _how did you not know?"_

She finally stopped her forceful waltz, and Lovrina stood dazed and dizzy in her hands. Venus leaned in closer, foreheads touching like she was checking for a fever, because even this close, she was guarded and Lovrina was not, and she would be the victor every time.

"What would you have done if you'd known?" Venus asked. "Would you have stopped him? Would you have intervened?"

"I-if I knew, then - !"

"Then what? You would have stood up to dear old Greevil and those snivelling little sons of his?" Venus grinned. "You have such power over them, my dear?" 

Lovrina swallowed. "No, I - "

"Then what? You would have soothed that Wes's heart? You would have put your cute little hands in his and taken all his woes upon your shoulders?"

Lovrina blushed an angry red. "No - "

"Then what? What _would_ you have done, then, my dear, before it reached this point of no return? What would you have done with those useless, powerless little hands of yours?"

Finally, Lovrina had worked up enough presence of mind to wrench herself out of Venus's grip. But Venus was not playing this time, not today, not with the guillotine blade that was her new employer poised above her neck. 

Lovrina had been sick to her stomach, panicking and shouting and working herself into a lather, because the stupid little tart held some affection for their afflicted boss - but she was ineffectual when all she had was fruitless frustration. Worthless. 

But if there was anything Venus understood, it was how to put worthless people to use. She grabbed Lovrina's chin with one hand, pulling her in close again, dropping her smile because she could never stay mad for long.

"Now that it has come to this," Venus whispered to her, too quiet for even shadows to hear, "what is it that you _can_ do? Will you remain useless forever?"

And finally, Lovrina had on her face an uncute expression. Venus, satisfied, let go.

"Then, I suppose I shall return to my adoring masses," Venus said. "Since after all, I am no good for anything else!"

But perhaps a genius may be able to reach a different answer.

* * *

Once more, Rui was sitting with Nascour for lunch. He ate silently, eyes trained down on his tray, while Rui picked at her own soup.

It had been one and a half years since the barrier had gone up around Agate, and in that time, they'd slowly smuggled their operations into town. No longer were they hiding in the darkness of the Under, afraid of roaming patrols and Cipher's grip around their throats. Finally, they had a stronghold of their own, and through the smuggling routes, had strengthened their alliance with Mt. Battle to the north, holding a united front against Cipher's encroachment. 

That wasn't to say they were winning. The situation was merely the Mt. Battle stalemate on a larger scale. In response to the Agate upset, Cipher had tightened their ship. With the backing of Verich Mining Corp., they had a steady influx of resources, supplies...pokémon. What little Team Snagem could procure was simply not enough to overturn Cipher's stranglehold. 

If it came down to a battle of attrition, Cipher would win. If it came down to an extended siege, Cipher would starve them out. The only reason it hadn't was because - what little Nascour had revealed to them - Cipher was working on something big. A shadow pokémon that couldn't be purified. A fighting force they couldn't defy. If they finished their project, then it wouldn't matter what little resistance the Kid's Grid could mount - it would all fall in the face of the final project.

"You are thinking about your inevitable loss," Nascour said, jogging Rui out of her reverie.

"I'm not," Rui said, and then, sheepishly, "is it really that obvious?"

"Everything about you is obvious," Nascour said. "You keep no secrets. It's unsightly. Shall I elucidate once more exactly how you will be destroyed?"

"It's always doom and gloom with you," Rui said. "I want to hear about something else today."

Nascour raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"I don't know," Rui pouted. "Something to lighten the mood. Everyone's been all worried and scared and tense and it's really…"

"Reasonable?" Nascour suggested. Rui stuck her tongue out at him. He didn't emote in response.

A silence hung between them for a few seconds, filled only by the sound of rushing water in the cavern and the scraping of their wooden spoons against wooden bowls. 

Surprisingly, it was Nascour who broke the silence.

"Father used to take me to the colosseum matches," Nascour said. "Very rarely - very, _very_ rarely - an exhibitor would visit from out-of-region. Outlanders, I suppose, is the pedestrian term. Most would come because some wealthy fan living in Orre had paid them an exorbitant fee. Less commonly, because they had heard stories about unconventional battling in Orre, and found the Under's matches - Orre's most fierce battles - to be distasteful."

He seemed lost for a moment, staring off into the distance, before he came to his senses and continued.

"I must have been only ten years old at the time. I believe this exhibitor hailed from Kalos. Yes, he had a - a meowstic. I remember, I was...charmed by its demeanor. Right, this must have been when I was nine, because I - I had asked my father for a meowstic for my birthday, and then he - "

Nascour's speech became more and more erratic as he continued, Rui watching in alarm as he doubled over, his dinner spilling onto the cage floor. 

"Yes, I - was given - an espurr. I remember that. At that time, he'd just been hired on to excavate for Verich Mining Corp. - Cipher only came into being afterwards, after they finished clearing out that - that _site_ , they called it a lakebed - "

He flung himself at the cage bars, startling Rui so badly that her own dinner went spilling onto the cavern floor. The force with which he hit the steel must have hurt - his hand, reaching out for her, was straining against the metal.

"Rui. Rui. What happened to that espurr? What happened to it? Why can't I remember what I did to it? Why does it - why did I forget what happened in the first place?"

She stared at him, at his frenzied expression, his shaking hands, and at the black aura choking him turning red with the fever pitch of his emotions.

She reached out and grabbed his hand, and he latched on with a bruising grip. It hurt, and she grimaced from it hurting, but looked him in the eye nonetheless.

"Nascour," she said, her other hand coming to squeeze his. 

"Something - something was taken from my father as he worked in that site," Nascour said. "And then I saw it, I saw it. Heartstone. It was one of the earliest tests. Before they installed the glass partition. He - father - took my pokémon from me. And then the heartstone took something else. Rui…"

"Nascour, breathe," Rui said, leaning forward. "It'll be alright. Breathe."

She had no idea what he was talking about - only that it was immense, and grave, and painful, and sad, and it would break him if he continued to thrash in its grip. He stared at her with too-wide eyes, a frantic emotion like terror or dread.

"It's going to be okay," she repeated. "It's going to be okay."

Slowly, bit by bit, his harsh breathing slowed. With it, his crushing grip subsided, and the frenzied red aura around him ebbed back into its usual violet-black - although clearer now, cleaner, like some of it had dissipated into the cavern air.

Finally, he let go, retreating back into his cell with his usual cool demeanour. 

"That was unsightly," he murmured. 

But it was also the most human, most _alive,_ that Rui had ever seen him. And so it was impossible for her not to break into a smile as she massaged her hand. In his bruising grip, she'd felt his pulse.

But before she could say any more, a breathless Secc was at the mouth of the cave, doubled over from running to come get her.

"Secc?"

"Rui," he gasped, between harsh breaths. "Cipher's second-in-command is outside the barrier. He says he came to see you."

She was already on her feet, walking his way, but she froze when he said his next words.

"He says Wes sent him."

Normally, that would have filled her with hope. Because it was Wes, after all - that Wes that she'd decided to have faith in despite the protests of everyone else who'd ever met him.

Why, then, did the mention of his name fill her veins with ice? Why, then, did she feel this cold, clawing burst of dread?

Behind her, she heard Nascour laugh. 

"Go on, then, foolish girl," he said, all genial and unfettered smiles. "Go see what good news Master Eldes has brought you."

* * *

"This is what you wanted."

The sick sound of snapping bone reverberated through the holding cell. Ardos screamed, because he couldn't help himself, because having one's bones systemically broken one by one was _painful_. Or at least Wes vaguely recalled that it was painful. Nothing was painful anymore.

"Just like you wanted," Wes said, tapping the iron bar against the shin he hadn't yet smashed, "there's nothing weak left in me."

If Ardos begged, Wes didn't hear it. He wound up and slammed the pipe into fragile bone. Another sickening crack. Another scream of pain. Wes watched for a minute longer before dropping the bar on the floor with a clang.

He turned to the labbies waiting nervously at the entrance to the holding cell, who all jumped up in fear as his gaze passed over them. The chansey they had with them, which had remained un-shadowfied because it would lose usefulness that way, openly cowered in fear. Wes stared for a second and turned away.

"Fix him," he ordered. "Then make sure he doesn't die of dehydration. Force-feed him if you have to. If he manages to kill himself, then whoever was on duty gets to join him."

A chorus of "yes, Grand Master," all spoken in unison, and then the labbies swarmed their former boss. Wes didn't stick around to watch. So long as Ardos was recovered enough for their next session.

Along the way, he passed by Greevil's cell. The old man was looking at him today - unusual. He stopped, his violet cloak fluttering around him.

"Enjoy the show?" he asked. It was for Greevil's benefit, after all. To make sure he knew that everything he had was held in Wes's grip, that he could tighten the knot anytime he wanted.

When the old man spoke, it was sickly and weak. The desired outcome. He sounded like he was about to cry. 

"When will you have had enough?"

Wes blinked at him. "Enough?"

"When will you be satisfied? Haven't you had your fill of revenge?"

Ah, he understood the question now. The old man still didn't grasp what it was he was dealing with, what it was Wes was after.

"There's no such thing as satisfied," Wes answered. "There's no such thing as 'enough.' How many ways do I need to say it?"

He took one step closer. Greevil flinched and shrank back.

"This isn't about revenge," Wes said. "I threw revenge away with everything else."

"Then, why - "

"Because I decided to do it. And because I decided to do it, I will do it. And because I will do it, I will do it…"

The old man was pale, shaking with something Wes didn't understand anymore. 

"That's madness," Greevil breathed.

"I threw that away with everything else," Wes repeated. "There won't ever be 'enough,' because 'enough' doesn't exist."

There was nothing left. It was simple, really. There was nothing left; that was to say, all there was left was nothing. 

Everything returned to nothing, was all for nothing, and amounted to nothing. 

Simple. Nothing was ever so simple as this.

"I'll end it," he said. "You, me, everyone, and everything. I'll crush it. I'll end it."

He looked down at Greevil with empty, golden, grim-reaper eyes.

"Watch."


	8. Cold day in hell.

For the first time in years, there were no absences at the admin table. Their Grand Master had made clear, in no uncertain terms, what fate awaited those who did not serve their purpose. Frigidly, unforgivably cold, Dakim could swear he could see his breath in white puffs because Wes was in the room. His toes and fingers were numb, but like all the admins gathered, he did not complain.

"We will take Mt. Battle."

That was Wes's edict at the beginning of the conference. The rest had followed with a shivering, nervous tension, as the admins worked out the details.

Mt. Battle was a fortress. Dakim hailed from its slopes, remembered traversing them on foot with big bundles of market goods on his back, tripping over his own two feet as he followed his father, holding onto the guiding ropes. There, so close to the sun that the air grew dizzy and thin, roosted Ho-Oh, or so the matrons liked to say. 

Ho-Oh was honored by battles. By rivalry, fierce competition, and self-improvement. And Dakim had never been good enough. That was, ultimately, why he left his family and descended the slopes. He was the black sheep, the second fiddle, and if Ho-Oh did not need him, then he had no need for Ho-Oh.

"Mt. Battle is impenetrable," Dakim said. "The sides are too steep to fly or climb, and the platforms have limited capacity. If we went toe-to-toe with our forces we'd be an even match, but with the terrain disadvantage there's nothing to be done."

"Then we don't fight from the bottom," Wes said, coldly. "We fly to the top and take it from there."

Dakim pursed his lips. "How many jets do we have?"

"Only five," Gorigan, one of the HQ admins said, in a weak, small voice. The outlanders were handling their new Grand Master worst of all. They looked altitude sick - choking to death on fumes. 

"Five is enough," Wes said. "We have Lugia."

It was Ein who spoke up next, leaning forward. "Sir," he said, evenly, "I don't know that XD-001 is ready for field work just yet. There was already that disastrous test with the S.S. Libra, where it dropped an entire cargo ship in the middle of the desert. It hasn't been very long since then."

"Cause of the failure?" Wes asked.

"XD-001 went berserk in a manner resembling hyper mode and began to attack the jets with its handlers inside. Although we managed to greatly reduce the likelihood - "

"Then it's fine," Wes interrupted. "We win even if it goes berserk. There'll be more of the enemy than there will be of us."

In other words, the handlers were disposable; the enemy was disposable. Dead or alive. Dakim felt his jaw clench.

"Who will be leading the sky team?" he asked. If he were to do it, then maybe casualties could be avoided. Of course, as if denying that, Wes answered.

"I will." 

Wes's eyes were two black, bottomless pits. He levied them on Dakim and Dakim felt his blood freeze over. "Aren't you sick of failing?"

That stung like it was an arrow aimed directly at Dakim's eye. Wes swept his gaze around the table.

"Aren't you all sick of failing?" he asked.

His voice was always quiet and always deafening. Something grand and terrible had found in him a perfect vessel, and now his words rang with a yawning, endless, clawing void.

A sandstorm.

"Cipher's goal," Wes said, "is world domination. Owning every continent, every region, every resource, every life. Everything."

A sandstorm, clawing away at everything in its path. Wailing, howling, searching and forgetting what it was searching for.

"You only get what you give," Wes said. He leaned forward on the table, the cold he brought with him creeping along its steel surface, numbing all their hands. 

"So give up. Crush your ego, crush your pride, crush your worthless feelings. Give up everything, and I'll deliver 'everything.'"

He tapped a scarred finger on the northernmost mountain on the Orrean map.

"We will take Mt. Battle," Wes said. "And we'll do it if we have to tear through your whole family tree."

Dakim clenched his fists and bowed his head.

Had he always been this weak? This useless? This unable to do anything at all? Wes had grabbed him by the throat and torn all his grandstanding away. 

"...Yes, Grand Master."

* * *

"You'll bury us with this," Ein breathed, not daring to raise his voice out of fear that  _ he _ would hear them. "This research - if the Grand Master catches wind of it, it won't just end with your execution."

"I know," Lovrina replied, faking bravado. "That's why I need you to cover for me and my brother when we make a break for it."

Was she insane? And risk his own neck? He pushed his glasses up and sneered. "I'd rather we go down together than you survive alone," he said. "I am a petty man."

"We're both gonna be dead either way at the rate things are going." She bit her lip, looked around, and leaned in. "If you stay behind, you can promise him you can make countermeasures or whatever. That's why I'm showing you the plans. You can tell him you're the only one who can do it...I mean...it's not like the other labbies are any use."

Ah, outlanders were so  _ stupid _ . So stupid.

"Or I could sell you out to the Grand Master right now," he hissed. "Sink your plan and take your position. It’s no secret I’ve been coveting it."

"And then what are you going to have?" she asked. "Whatever it is you want my position for, do you really think you’re going to live to see it when  _ that’s _ what our boss is like?"

Ein scowled at that. He turned away so she would not see his expression and walked a few paces toward the steel wall.

Ein had initially come to Orre because its ethical regulations were lax compared to the rest of the world. Bright-eyed and determined, he’d stepped out of a prestigious school in Kalus  _ summa cum laude _ , the youngest in his cohort, with a ticket to Orre already in hand, having learned well enough from the sharp, hypocritical stares of his classmates that his ideas were not welcome there.

He was a stupid outlander back then, too. 

"I heard from the peons that you used to live in Kalos," Lovrina said. "Why'd you come all the way out here?"

Advancement required sacrifice - he still believed this was true. But he hadn't known - hadn't realized - what "sacrifice" looked like until he had stained his hands with its blood. This stupid girl before him - did she even realize how many corpses were ground up to pave the way for Lugia's shadowfication? 

"It's already too late for those childish dreams," he said, crossing his arms. "And it's too late for yours."

Once upon a time, he'd probably wanted to help people. Such a fantasy was only laughable to him now. No one would accept a savior like him. It was pointless to even try.

"I'm going to run," she said. "While the Grand Master is at Mt. Battle. I'm not going to get another chance."

"You won't even get that far." Ein gave her his final warning. "You and I are monsters. We are just as guilty for all Cipher's sins as any peon on the street and our Grand Master himself. It's too late to be anything else. If you keep quiet and do as you're told, you'll be on the winning side. Why risk everything on such a stupid gamble?"

But Lovrina stared evenly back at him, with more conviction than he had.

"Because I hate giving up," she said. "I hate it more than anything else in the world."

"I'm not telling you to give up; I'm telling you to use your brain!"

"No," Lovrina said, jabbing him in the ribs with her index finger. "You're telling me that you gave up and you want me to give up, too. Why don't you go throw yourself into the ocean then, huh? Since you like guarantees so much!"

He pushed his glasses up again, snarling. When was the last time he'd ever been this annoyed? No...it was more than mere annoyance. He was actually angry. 

Angry! He hadn't been angry in  _ years. _ And yet...it wasn't directed at the idiot standing in front of him, like it should have been. Rather, he was angry at the idiot whose body he'd been inhabiting, who had shrugged his shoulders like it couldn't be helped as the world was crumbling around them.

How utterly despicable that fool was, who had never accomplished anything at all. Ein hated incompetents more than anyone else.

"...You had better not expect to get your position back once all this is over," he said. "Deserters like you are undeserving of the position of head of Cipher's R&D."

Lovrina didn't have a word to say to that - good, because silence was the most valued trait in a subordinate. Instead, she tackled him in an unwanted hug, which mercifully lasted only a couple seconds, before she ran off with her twin tails trailing behind her. One last thing to annoy him with, huh…

He was signing his own death warrant, he knew. And he had always had terrible luck at gambling. Really, he  _ should _ report this to the Grand Master...he kept thinking so, kept seeing Greevil's battered form being smashed against the glass partition, but…

Ah, that was right. Once upon a time, he'd wanted to become a doctor because doctors saved lives. And even though he'd perverted that dream again and again…

Monsters were free of the binding chains of morality and ethics. They were free to do as they pleased, to commit any and all sins at their leisure. And since they were free to do as they pleased...wasn't it fine for him to act like a hypocrite to his heart's desire?

* * *

Umbreon and espeon were covered in scars. With taut bodies and lean muscle, they were ragged and torn, hardened by training and battle, calloused by the frigid, relentless sand. They much resembled their trainer.

As shadow pokémon began to open their hearts, more and more of their untouched, original natures showed through. For most pokémon, this was curiosity, kindness. For the twins, it was vicious, violent wariness. It was not long before no one could approach them, for they snapped at anyone who got too close, hackles raised and teeth bared, growling deep and guttural as they stood over and against each other - at least one of them keeping watch at any given time.

In that sense, too, they were like their trainer, Rui thought. Only in the moments where their clarity faded and their eyes clouded over did they let her approach, their fur coarse and rough under her hands. They hailed from a hostile world, and approached it with hostility; and yet, although they snapped at her as soon as they shook off their shadowy auras (however temporarily), their teeth had never once made contact with her skin.

Because they were, like their trainer, kindhearted.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do anything," Eldes mumbled, again and again. Every piece of news that filtered through their grapevine darkened the bags around his eyes and paled the skin around his knuckles. 

Poisoned. Wes had been poisoned. Nascour was poisoned, too; the last dregs of black aura clutching at his heart refused to let go. He still looked up at her with empty eyes, and his blank gaze condemned her - because now, there was nothing left that she could do for him. Celebi's power could not reach where poison seeped.

"I told you," he said to her in his monotone. "That you cannot save me."

She slapped her cheeks so hard they stung, forcing herself back into the present. They'd come this far; what was she doing, hesitating? 

The Kid's Grid had to keep fighting. That meant that she, more than anyone else, could not be discouraged. Courage was the only thing she could offer. 

No matter how much she was wavering, heavy with a sense of dread. The air pressure was changing. The wind felt different in her hair. A storm was brewing, just over the horizon…

* * *

The cast shadow, they called him. The ill omen. Grim reaper. Grand Master.

Not that it mattered anymore how he was addressed.

He stopped sleeping. Out of habit, he still went to bed - at first, anyways. When it became clear that it was simply wasted time, he took to patrolling instead, walking up and down the hallways of the lab, the key lair, Citadark Isle. Up and down the streets of Pyrite, Phenac, the Under.

Ghost, they called him. 

Everything was going according to plan. Mt. Battle loomed in the distance like it was waiting for him. In his eyes, he could only see it ground underfoot, crushed into dust.

The wind in his ears was roaring. He let it carry him forward, ever forward, onward and onward. Step by step by step. If it hurt, he didn't notice. If he hated it, he couldn't tell. As long as there was a goal in front of him, he would pursue it. Damning the consequences.

No one was allowed to get in his way. With his skarmory's steel claws scraping against the ground as it patrolled behind its master, step by step by step by step. Inexorably, unrelentingly forward, until even the screaming in his ears could finally grow silent and fade away.

* * *

Since when had Wes grown so strong? At what time, while Dakim was not looking, did the scrawny, malnourished boy from Snagem, with bleached-blond hair and downcast eyes, become a monster tearing through the upper echelons of Mount Battle as if he were steel claws raking their way through tender flesh? At what point did his fangs grow so sharp, and accurate, and deadly? Or had he always been this way?

A monster. Even when he was young and the weakest of their number, struggling to turn in reports in his shaky, unsure handwriting, he was a monster even then. In the shadows and the dead of night, he had even then been scraping his blade against the whetstone, turning those sharp, starving eyes upon their throats.

Ever since that day three years ago when he'd found Wes sitting alone in the desert, Dakim had known he was trouble. This child, with wide-open eyes, was watching and waiting and biding his time. They were naked and ugly in his eyes, and he was harboring in his heart an ugly, black grudge.

At the end of his path of carnage stood two elders with long white beards and billowing robes. They stood against the Grand Master's advance and the biting mountain winds, proud backs held straight, just like Dakim always remembered.

"Halt."

"We will not let you continue this senseless rampage."

At the summit of Mount Battle was a caldera overflowing with red-hot lava, which spilled down the mountain's side like rivers of blood, cooling in the cold, thin air. Once upon a time, the basin had held a temple, a shrine. But for as long as Dakim had lived, and Dakim's forefathers, and even their forefathers, all that sat atop the mountain was molten fire, the tears of the great bird of the sun and sky weeping for the destruction it had wrought.

When Mount Battle's 100-trainer challenge had been constructed in order to capitalize on the changing tides of the gold rush, along the mountain's rim was constructed - and was still being constructed - a coliseum. In a way, it was worship; all this was worship for the great bird honored by battles. And even this, right now - Wes knocking on the summit's door, and Infin and Inity, the great elders, answering his challenge - this, too, was worship, in a sense.

It would be worship if only Wes was not, himself, a blasphemy.

Dakim expected him to attack, but he did not. Instead, with deathly and unperturbed calm, he regarded the elders with his empty eyes. At his back were the broken, bruised bodies of the trainers from Zone 10. They had glared at Dakim with recognition as he had them beaten and restrained on his Grand Master's orders. Because Wes was never content with  _ victory _ , even before the poison had seeped into his veins, but with crushing and crushing until his enemy was reduced to sand. 

If Wes were here alone, they may not have been afforded this much lenience. What were some broken bones and swollen faces in the face of what the Grand Master was capable of now? It was fine if they glared at him like he was a hateful enemy. As long as they still had eyes and beating hearts to glare with...

Wasn't this what Dakim had wanted? To prove to his family that he'd been the winning bet all along? 

"Battle me," Wes said, over the whistling winds. The same "request" he'd made of every trainer along the way. Infin and Inity, with tightening expressions, did not move.

"You will leave this place, villain."

"There is nothing for you here."

"Unconditional surrender," Wes continued. "Winner takes all."

"Did you not hear us?"

"Begone! We won't negotiate with you."

The Grand Master took two steps forward, his cloak flapping in the wind. A dark spot in their vision, a black speck in their eyes. 

On his ear was mounted an eyepiece made of red glass. It flashed red, and on cue, the Cipher peons brought as backup scrambled for cover, taking their hostages with them. Infin and Inity, sensing the change in the air, lowered their stances and readied their arms.

Behind them came a freezing gale wind. It howled as it passed over the mountainside, clawing at their clothes and stealing the breath from their lungs. What clouds there were began to boil, turning heavy and black and laden with rain and hail, then blacker still, until they choked out the sun, turning the daylight into night.

The clouds began to bulge, then parted. From those ominous thunderheads descended a monster in malevolent violet and silver, streaming rainclouds like they were weeping from the feathers on its wings. The fast-dimming light around its body bent and broke, and their gazes were drawn toward it even as their hearts screamed for them to look away. It was beautiful; it was cruel. It was unbearably, unbearably ugly.

Infin and Inity reacted first with surprise, then with horror. Even Dakim felt himself shiver with disgust when he looked upon what they had wrought. Not one monster, but two.

Shadow Lugia, cloaked in cruelty and curses, landed at Wes's side, as still and empty as the Grand Master, leaking poison from its jaws like drool. The clouds, all-black, tore open and broke all at once, dousing them all in freezing rain. Above the din of the crashing of wind and thunder carried only Wes's steady voice, as unrelenting as the desert itself.

He pointed a finger in the elders' direction, at the naked steel beams and rafters of the unfinished colosseum, at the pool of lava coloring the underside of the thunderheads with an ominous red glow.

"Crush them," he commanded. 

"Rampage and break. Until there's nothing left to save."

Lugia roared. A sound once like a somber bell turned into steel scraping steel, turned into an ugly cry that made Dakim clap his hands over his ears, tears leaking from his eyes.

Everything up until now had been a prelude. The pressure had been rising, the air turning thick, and now here was the storm: a sky made out of shadows, the freezing, pelting rain biting where it made contact with his skin, like it was corroding him, like it was poison.

And at the still point in the whirling tempest stood Wes, who could only stand upright because he was now so empty the gale winds blew straight through him.

Golden eyes, brown hair streaked gold in the sun, shot through with black-hole violet, the vessel of the storm that would bury them all.

But the fight was not over with just one god's appearance. Like in every childhood story Dakim had ever heard, there was a flickering hope even in the darkest night. What tore through the curses that had blackened the sky was a brilliant beam of scarlet, golden flame. It crashed against the ground at the Grand Master's feet, his body shielded from harm by Lugia's wing. As Lugia moved aside and afforded Dakim a view of the sky over the active caldera, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

Parting the storm with each great beat of its dazzling wings, a great bird in gilded crimson, wreathed by a rainbow halo in scintillating, shifting colors, descended from the heavens. Through the furious vortex of angry black clouds spread a circle of clear, radiant blue, so bright that it was blinding, filtered through each glimmering feather of the bird's golden crest and fluttering tail. The tendrils of shadowy cloud cover that came close to its body evaporated like mist in the morning sun, unable to touch its magnanimous form.

Ho-Oh, the proud, the zenith, the apex, the great bird of the sun and sky. Ho-Oh, honored by battles and the clashing of wills, worshipped by harsh endeavors and the breathless triumph of victory. 

Divine and beautiful.

Ho-Oh, one of the great guardian gods of Orre.

Dakim had coveted its gaze since he was a child. He had prayed for a glimpse of its sacred form, to see its glittering feathers, hear its trumpeting call. He had endeavored and endeavored and endeavored, worked himself to the bone, just to try and catch even the smallest glimpse from its piercing eyes. 

But Ho-Oh had never answered his challenge. Not then, not now, and not ever. In front of the sudden clarity of the great bird of the sky, he realized just how foolish he'd been in his pursuits. How sick he was of failing, and how he had never done anything but.

Ho-Oh, as it came to rest between Infin and Inity, watched as Wes stepped forward. He was the challenger whose call Ho-Oh had come to answer. At his side was Ho-Oh's twin, distorted and ugly, dripping with malice and spite. This was a battle Ho-Oh could not ignore. 

And chillingly enough...it seemed that that was what Wes had been hoping for. In a quiet voice, hidden under the pelting rain and howling wind, Dakim heard him speak a single word. 

"...Finally."

* * *

Once upon a time, the desert was green, and lush, and beautiful. And then the warring of the great birds of sun and rain turned the land into a barren desert, empty and devoid of life. And then the earth was filled with black curses, as many curses as there were grains of sand.

Hatred and grief and rage, tumbling over each other, clawing at each other, until they were no longer distinct. Mixing with the sand and giving it form - hands to grasp with, claws to dig with, teeth to bite with, and a voice with which to scream.

Those curses spread throughout the wasteland, scratching at the dry, cracked earth until all was angry, whirling sand, until it was tugging at the very talons and tails of the great birds of the sun and rain…

* * *

Lugia gave another heartbreaking screech, then let loose a blast in Ho-Oh's direction, parried with a jet of flame. With that, the two titans were airborne, claws raking against claws, beaks tearing at feather and bone, and whenever they collided the whole mountain shook. 

"You monster," Infin cried.

"How could you?" Inity wailed.

"By breaking it," Wes answered, his skarmory's wings flashing with every burst of fire from above as it tore forward at the pokémon Infin and Inity had sent out. "Like I'll break you."

* * *

Wes was born in the Dark. In winding, labyrinthine tunnels where the sun did not reach, and the only light in his world came from the blasted-out yellow filament bulbs left over from the gold rush. Where it was only ever too-quiet with the dead air of an insulated cavern, or too-loud, with the pounding of soulless mechanical drills carving their way toward the earth's core, or the screaming and shouting that would rattle through the frigid steel walls of the neighbors and drunks whose lives were falling apart over and over again.

And Wes had been born cold. He was born in a world where the blankets were thin but the chill was deep, where he picked frostbite scabs off the soles of his feet until he couldn't feel them at all anymore. He'd been born hungry, waiting long hours locked indoors for someone who always came home late smelling of alcohol and tobacco. He'd been born alone, staring up at the rusted steel door, at the crooked iron bars criss-crossing the windows, at the broken clock in the kitchen that no longer moved. He'd draw his knees up to his chest and wrap them with his bony arms, the blankets all gathered around him like a cocoon, sitting on a pile of clothing to stave off the biting chill of the cold steel floor, and still he would be slowly freezing to death.

He was born with nothing. He was born  _ as _ nothing. A boy that didn't exist on any records, abandoned by his father before he had ever tasted air, abandoned by his mother not long after. Alone, and cold, and shivering in the Dark.

And it had been foolish for him to think he'd ever be anything else. Yes, when all along, he had always been exactly what he was supposed to be.

Accursed.

Cursed.

_ Cursed - _

* * *

Ho-Oh could not escape its fate. It struggled and fought to the very end, running its body ragged against its broken twin. But Lugia, as it was now, felt neither pain nor exhaustion. Even as it bled, as its bones snapped beneath its skin, it completed the order its master had given. Even as Ho-Oh cried and wailed and begged its twin come to its senses, Lugia chased its throat, and now, once more, the sky had clouded over, closing the gap of brilliant blue like hungry jaws, until all the sky was black, until all the earth was cast in shadow.

Infin and Inity, with Skarmory's steel blades pressed against their necks and their backs against the peons securing their arms, could only watch helplessly as Wes stepped forward toward the great bird pinned beneath its shadow twin.

With a scarred and calloused hand - bloodstained, battle-torn - Wes reached out for Ho-Oh's great, curving talons. He grabbed onto its ankle and looked down through his empty eyes. The victor.

Winner takes all. They didn't realize what that meant until Ho-Oh began to scream.

Spreading out from where his hands were digging into Ho-Oh's flesh was poison, corroding the scaly skin from scarlet to black. Its cries were hoarse as it tried to escape, choking on itself, smoke sputtering out of its throat instead of fire. It beat its wings against the rocky ground, feathers fraying as it struggled against its twin pinning it down, jaws like a vicegrip around its neck, caging it with its wings.

Poison. 

Wes was poisoning it.

No, no! Dakim wanted to scream. What kept him rooted to the spot - what kept everyone rooted to the spot, unable to look away - was terror. Fear. Cold, leaden dread anchoring his whole body down. He was a tiny, insignificant creature caught in the jaws of a monster, and he was no longer able to move.

The black crept up Ho-Oh's crimson feathers, dying them an ugly violet to match its twin. Weakened, exhausted, it gave one last broken wail as the poison crept up its stomach, its lungs, its throat, its heart.

All Ho-Oh's feathers were stained with the black-violet of a bruise. The thrashing subsided into broken, jerking twitches. Like a marionette without strings - at last, it fell limp, breathless, against the ground...

What expression was Wes making? He wasn't. His too-wide, unblinking eyes seemed to be looking at nothing at all. His hands fell back to his sides, hidden in the folds of his cloak. As he stepped back, Ho-Oh slowly rose to its feet. It its eyes was nothing. It saw nothing and was nothing. A husk. An ugly, empty, and terrible monster no more sacred than the pebbles underfoot.

And that should have been enough - a decisive victory. Without peons holding them up, Infin and Inity would have crumpled to their knees. Unconditional surrender? How could they ever dare to think they could barter for conditions like this! What victory could have been more absolute?

But it wasn't enough; it was never enough. With even steps, Wes approached the elders, and then - without warning, without hesitation - he cracked his left fist into Infin's jaw. The peon holding him in place staggered backwards from the impact, then let the elder go as Wes pulled him forward by the front of his robes. What followed was no more and no less than a beating. Cruel, senseless, and excessive violence. Even as the old man's blood splattered against Wes's skin, he didn't even blink. A jab in the gut. The snapping of an arm. A punch in the face, over and over again.

The winds were howling, the rain was crashing against the ground, and yet, over the cacophony carried the sound of flesh being pounded, over and over. The Zone 10 trainers were shrieking, begging him to stop. Inity, Infin's partner, was straining against the peons holding him back while shouting, screaming, crying himself hoarse. 

It only ended when Infin fell unconscious, crumpling to the ground. Wes grinded his bruised, blackened, bleeding face into the dirt under the sole of his boot.

He still wore empty expression that took neither pleasure nor sorrow from delivering such a savage, merciless onslaught. It had not changed, had not so much as twitched, this entire time. 

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze on his admin. The gold of his eyes, mixed with the violet of heartstone's poison, seemed to glow against the backdrop of the raging storm. 

A monster.

"Give the other elder the same treatment," he commanded.

A monster that would not rest until it had made monsters of them all.

They were begging him not to do it. Inity, the Zone 10 trainers, even some of Dakim's peons, with the grim set of their mouths beneath their helmets. They were calling his name. Among the trainers, there were even voices Dakim recognized. Shut up, he wanted to scream, shut up! He knew it already, that he'd crossed the line, that there was nowhere left for him now but Cipher, because Wes had forced him to forsake all else.

His fist met the elder's jaw with all his impotent frustration. He didn't want this. He'd never wanted this. With every impact, he wanted to scream, to bare his teeth and forgo his humanity and lose himself in the senselessness of it all. 

But some stupid pride - the same pride that had gotten him into this mess - refused to let him look away. He confronted himself with his reddening, aching fists, with Inity's sorry state, with the feeling of the elder's harsh breaths and spit and blood against his skin.

By the time Inity, too, at last fell limp, there was silence on the mountain. The Zone 10 trainers were frozen in the sorrow of their elders' state. The elders lay ragged and unconscious at Cipher's feet. And Cipher waited quietly for their Grand Master's orders, because one did not speak out of turn in Wes's Cipher - not without joining the losing team.

Wes, disinterested, was looking elsewhere, eyes focused on nothing at all.

"I told you."

He was addressing all of them.

"Give up 'everything,' and I'll give you 'everything.'"

Slowly, he turned to fix his bloodied gaze on Dakim once more. Step by agonizing step, he came closer, every inch bringing with it a wave of numbing chill.

He placed a hand on Dakim's shoulder. Even through the fabric, it was so cold that it burned, that he could feel it seeping into his bones.

"Thought you might not have gone through with it," Wes said, only so loud that Dakim could hear, that Dakim could feel it coiling like fear in the pit of his stomach, "would have been an excuse to get rid of you. At least you can follow orders..."

Dakim shivered. Wes continued, louder this time, for everyone's ears.

"Mount Battle is yours. Just like you always wanted." 

Dakim couldn't stop shaking. He stared at Ho-Oh, who could only blindly follow its master now, devoid of even its very soul.

There were no heroes in Orre.

And now there were no gods left, either.

* * *

"Mount Battle has fallen."

Secc, the leader of the Kid's Grid, was shaking as he delivered the news. 

"We're the last ones standing."

* * *

"How will we get past the barrier?" Venus asked, hiding her mouth behind her sleeve. She was the only one left who was bold enough to question him - and that was only because her life had been forfeit since long ago.

"We don't need to," Wes answered her in a soulless tone.

"Grand Master," Venus said, "I don't understand."

"Our aim is Celebi."

"Yes."

"Celebi is the guardian of the forest. And its barrier is only big enough to cover one small town."

Even Venus could not remain composed as the meaning of his words dawned on her, her voice wavering as she spoke.

"You can't be serious…"

He dragged his finger from one edge of the forest to the other, drawing an arc behind Agate Village.

"We will destroy everything here," he said. "We will burn it, blast it, and raze it to the ground. We will fan the fumes across the village and smoke them out. And when Celebi appears…"

The cast shadow, they called him. The grim reaper. 

"I'll tear off its wings."

There was only victory in Wes's future. Indeed, only victory remained before them.

"And then," he said, addressing every admin at the table, "there will be nothing left to save you."


	9. Facing the music.

Stupid girl.

Nascour sat there clutching her frail little hands, which had pulled him out of the shadows and back into the light. 

Around them was the shimmering, sparkling air, the wind rustling through the Relic Forest, a musical and beautiful sound as it whistled through the shrine. He'd been deaf and blind and empty for so long. He'd been lost, walking with no direction, exhausted to his bones for so, so long, and now, finally, he was whole again.

Stupid girl, who never gave up on him. Stupid girl, who never gave up.

It hurt, it hurt! It was marvelous that it hurt, that he could once more feel pain and sorrow and joy, that his heart and lungs were no longer being suffocated by a dull, black miasma. He grieved the time he'd lost. He mourned the mistakes he'd made. And he bitterly regretted the sins he'd committed - that which he could not undo, which would stain his hands forever - but finally, finally, he was free.

"Stupid girl," he said, wiping at his unsightly face. "You did it. You really managed to do it."

And there was her impossible sunlight smile, her clear voice like a bell laughing along with him. 

"I told you I could save you," she said.

* * *

It hurt! The Grand Master slammed Ein against the wall, his head banging against the cool grey steel, filling his vision with stars. He wrapped both hands around Ein's windpipe, his scarred arms immovable as Ein scrabbled uselessly against them. He felt like he was being crushed by a machine.

The Grand Master was not angry with him - he was incapable of that. This, like everything else, was merely a show of overwhelming force. A warning to everyone watching, those useless and cowardly labbies all huddled behind blinking lights. Betrayal had a price, and Wes was an uncompromising collector.

"You have one chance to convince me to let you live," Wes said, in that quiet, subzero voice. He let go of Ein's throat and Ein collapsed, heaving, onto the ground. Before he could fully regain his breath, Wes's boot slammed into his side - in precisely the right place for it to _hurt,_ Ein curling up instinctively, cursing how undignified he looked.

"Talk," Wes ordered. Ein glared up at him and cleared his throat through gritted teeth. Wes never said anything he didn't mean. Ein's life really was on the line.

"I'm more useful than all your other scientists combined," he spat out, between inelegant, shuddering gasps. "Get rid of me and spend ten years looking for a replacement."

Wes stared down at him with cold regard. The fact was, Lovrina's outsider logic of selling Wes information on her device was useless here. What good was such information when Wes was sure to swallow her whole, either way? He did not need Ein for that.

And Ein had spent long enough managing Nascour and Evice to know that all that mattered to the poisoned was his usefulness to them. He took a shuddering breath and began again.

"I convinced her to run to the enemy so that they'd have their eggs all in one basket," he lied. "Her wavering heart is useless to you. I am immune to such frivolous ideas as standing against you."

That earned him another kick to the abdomen. Ein cried out in pain.

Wes continued to stare down at his writhing body with empty eyes With a cold and calculated movement, he reached down and pulled him up to his feet by his shirt. Ein was still in so much pain that he'd have doubled over or collapsed if Wes was not holding him upright, stumbling as Wes walked him across the room and shoved him into one of his labbies' arms.

"Put him on the slab," Wes ordered. "The same settings as Ardos."

Ein trembled. "You can't be serious - "

"If you suddenly want to be a good person," Wes said, calling his lie, "then die on the bed you made. If you want to live, survive. Don't ever think of messing up again. You've decided that this lab will be your tomb, either way."

The Grand Master's orders were absolute. With pale and frightened faces, the labbies dragged Ein away.

"Sorry," they murmured to him once they left earshot. "We're so sorry…"

This was his comeuppance, wasn't it? He couldn't find fault with Wes's logic. If he had been smart, turned Lovrina in when he'd had the chance, he wouldn't be facing such a grotesque punishment as this. And if he was ever noble or brave, then things would never have gotten this bad in the first place.

He closed his eyes as he was buckled in, feeling Wes's frigid stare from beyond the glass partition. He would not die here, but neither would he regret what he had done. It was up to those idiots now, the ones he'd benevolently gifted a chance to. If they managed to screw it up, to throw his gift away, then he would personally ensure they suffered what he was about to tenfold.

* * *

"You can't take all the credit," Lovrina pouted, removing the prototype of her device from around Nascour's neck. "You couldn't have done it without me."

Nascour touched his throat, where the collar had been sitting. "A strange invention," he murmured. "Amplifying the effects of purification?"

"Yeah," Rui answered, beaming up at Lovrina. "We really couldn't have done it without you. You're incredible."

Lovrina flushed an angry red and turned away, huffing. "Say that again when it works on the Grand Master," she said, folding her arms. "If any of us can get close enough to put this on him, anyway."

Nascour, still holding Rui's hands, felt her grow stiff and still.

"Is he really…"

Lovrina lowered her eyes. "Poisoned, or whatever you stupid Orreans call it? Yeah."

She looked out toward the entrance to the Relic Shrine.

Any day, now. Any day, Cipher would arrive, bringing with them a gale force that they could hardly hope to repel. It was likely - no, almost assured - that they were going to lose in a one-sided slaughter. Even with Gonzap's team smuggling pokémon in, even with escapees from Mt. Battle, and even with Eldes and Lovrina on the fighting force…

"Rui," Nascour said, squeezing her hand. "Let me fight on the frontlines. You still have all my pokémon, yes?"

She startled out of her reverie, looking at him with clear blue eyes. 

"I want to repay you," Nascour said. "For everything you've done for me. It'd be fair to say that I owe you my life."

Seeing his resolve, what could Rui do but accept it? Her hands squeezed his, her blue eyes kindling with that fiery determination.

"I don't need your life," she said. "Survive, along with everyone else, and let's throw a big party once we win. Balloons and confetti and streamers and cake for everyone. And everyone will be there, because everyone will live."

Stupid girl. Making one impossible request after another, pursuing one impossible dream after the last.

He smiled, because even in all of this, she would never change, and if she never changed, then that meant they might have a chance at victory after all.

"Very well," he promised. "Spare no expense."

* * *

Wes's umbreon and espeon, the moment they'd been purified, had run off into the desert sands without looking back. They did not heed Rui's call - wild as they were, thick as thieves, they jumped into the underbrush and vanished.

In the dead of frigid Orrean night, she swore she could feel them watching her, with eyes as sharp as their master's.

* * *

The skies above Agate turned black and the wind began to howl.

It looked like a scene from his uncle’s stories come to life, Eldes thought. Except in this one, the best that they could do for heroes were people with bloodstained hands. Snagem and Gonzap, in their proud red vests, perched on a cliffside like a pack of wolves. Those in Agate who could still fight and those escaped from Mt. Battle, under Eagun’s supervision, held solemn expressions on Eldes’s right. Many of them were parents and grandparents who did not expect to survive this day, making a stand for their childrens’ sake. To Eldes’s left was a group being led by Secc of the Kid’s Grid, the original rebel forces from Pyrite and the Under, clad in their rainbow leathers. They had been battling from the very beginning. They were going to see this war through until the end.

In the center-front of their formation was Eldes’s small team of Cipher deserters. Out of everyone here, they were the most battle-ready and the least easy to trust. Behind Eldes stood Nascour and Lovrina, and behind them stood ex-peons, who had painted and refashioned their armor in rainbow hues to stand out from the stark, lifeless white of the official rank-and-file. 

The black storm brewed overhead for hours. Through the green light of the barrier, the last holdouts of the village watched as hovervan after hovervan rolled up over the desert sands, offloading faceless soldier after faceless soldier, who arranged themselves in perfect formation, in neat, white rows, like teeth.

One by one, the admins emerged out of the ranks. They moved with averted gazes, reluctant purpose, with stiff expressions that gave nothing away.

Gorigan, Snattle, Ein, and Venus at the rear. Dakim, Miror, and Evice at the front. They outnumbered the rebel forces 3-to-1, standing in pristine, flawless phalanxes, in identical uniform.

And finally, the Cipher forces parting for him like an ocean being split down the middle, emerged their Grand Master. The Ill Omen, the Grim Reaper, the Cast Shadow.

Indeed, Eldes found that he couldn’t even call the monster before him “human” anymore.

With totems carved from Relic Forest wood, three of them - Eldes, Silva, and Eagun - passed through the barrier to meet him. As soon as they stepped out, the screaming winds were almost enough to steal the breath from their lungs, clawing at them with talons freezing-cold. Keeping close to the barrier, they stared Wes down. This would be it - the last bated breaths before the storm broke, the last chance to run.

Eldes stepped forward to speak on their behalf once he realized, soberly, that to his right stood an elderly man and to his left stood a child. This was all that was left to oppose the screaming winds. 

With mocking and empty, glassy eyes, Wes gazed through all of Eldes’ sins. Eldes could have stopped this, prevented this. He should never have let things come this far. He was paying for his mistakes only now that it was too late. That was what Wes's accusatory glare said to him, in their violent and black-stained gold.

It was Wes who spoke first, with a voice that sounded like stones being ground to dust.

“Will you surrender, or will you die?”

The answer was a forgone conclusion. If they surrendered, they died. And if they fought, and lost, they died just the same.

“There’s still time to turn back,” Eldes said, quietly. “To reconsider.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

Right. Right...Wes only ever spoke the brutal truth, whenever he spoke at all. It was difficult - nay, impossible - for this to be any more or less than the convergence of a terrible and tragic fate set into motion long, long ago.

Back when the desert was still lush and green and beautiful…

The stormheads bulged, pregnant, and broke. From out of the clouds descended Lugia, wreathed in tempest and madness, in sorrow and malice. It threatened to blow them away with every flap of its wings as it came to roost, its tail gouging lines out of the earth. Its empty eyes mirrored those of its master, and poison drool leaked out from its beak, and the sand turned black where it landed.

“One last chance," Wes said.

Eldes steeled himself, because that was all that he could do.

“We won’t give in. We’ll fight, Wes. We’ll win.”

Wes tilted his head, his black-stained, gold-streaked hair falling languidly over his shoulder. And then, with a creepjng and inhuman slowness, his expression changed. His lips twisted upward, but not exactly into a smile or grin. It was simply desperation, or avarace, or starvation, a corpse's lip curling up over its gnashing teeth.

_I'll tear out your heart._

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Behind them, a bolt of black-violet flame screamed through the black clouds blanketing the sky from one end of the horizon to the other. It hit the ground with a bone-rattling boom, a column of smoke and fire rising up from the crashing trees. And then it was followed by another, and then another - each one as unstoppable and indiscriminate as the last. Even from the other side of the barrier, they could feel the burning, freezing heat. And maybe people were screaming - screaming, and the wind was screaming, too.

The first that they saw of it were wingtips - crimson, stained violet, embossed by flashing gold. Then its body - enormous and proud, feathers curling in the heat-shimmer, winding around its throat.

Ho-Oh emerged from the smoke, great and beautiful and ugly, broken and dead and terrible. All their worst fears come true. In its beak was fire; in its eyes was blind, empty obedience. It cried, and Lugia's voice joined it, a two-part disharmony, the sound of which was like claws dragging their way through flesh and bone, stealing the breath from their lungs and doubling them over - indeed, only the Grand Master remained unaffected, such a sound merely the echo of the screaming sands. He alone stood in the whipping winds as though he were untouched by mortal woes.

The Relic Forest began to burn. Its smoke, which wreathed them, was like poison scorching their lungs. The heat, which seared them, was agony. They could hear the forest crying in the cracking of trunks and the popping of leaves.

Black smoke and violet flame streaming skyward into violent roiling clouds all threatening to burst, the greedy desert wind trying to strip their flesh from their bones, and a monster standing before them with a corpse-like grin…

This looked just like one of his uncle's stories. It looked like the end of the world.

* * *

The Relic Shrine was singing. The wind, thickened with black, ashy, acrid smoke, was whistling through the forest, catching in the grooves and cuts in the pillar made of semicircular stone, and it was singing as if it were sobbing, singing as if it were screaming, the only standing gravestone in all of Orre.

Once upon a time, the king, in his grief, had buried his beloved in the last verdant sanctuary in the desert, the last patch of green left untouched by the warring of the sky and rain.

And when the land was blackened with shadows and curses, it was the forests that soothed that great unrest. But the one who guarded the forests had been incapable of abating the fury of the gods and spirits in life; and so it was that even this effort amounted to little more than a small, faltering hope, a salve on a gaping wound, a single voice singing across a barren land. All that it could do was put the curse to sleep and fold it beneath the shifting sands.

But it was with the curse clawing at the feet of the great spirits that they finally ceased their warring and realized the wrong that they had done. It was only in looking down at where their talons were being snared by shadows that they noticed that the land they had once loved had been reduced to rubble and dust. In shame and in fear of what they had wrought, the great birds of the sun and sky vowed never to fly over the open sands again. The great bird of the sun retreated to the dizzying mountaintops, where the air was thin and the mountains wept fire, the fire of the great bird's regret. The great bird of the sea fled to an island surrounded by tempestuous storms, locked in penance for its unforgivable sins.

And in the desert, the curses were buried beneath the sand - slumbering, waiting, and weeping.

Woe betide he who is driven by greed and goldlust. Woe betide he who is driven by jealousy and avarice. Woe betide he who wanders into a sandstorm, who journeys into the underworld, who searches for the lost lake and the treasures buried with it. For all things in Orre lead back to silver and gold, and all silver and gold is cursed, cursed, cursed!

All around her, the forest was burning. The barrier had shattered, like so much fragile glass, and in the distance she could hear the cries of warfare, of battle, of one-sided slaughter. And yet she stood strong, and proud, and brave, because what choice did she have? 

Wes, or the monster in his skin, was staring down at her, like he had once done all those years ago. She hadn't been able to do anything for him then, her feeble hands stuck behind bulletproof glass. But things were different now...they had to be, or else there would be nothing, nothing, nothing left.

She was scared. She was terrified of the weight that pressured her shoulders and willed her spine to bend, but still she stood brave and resolute, because it was all she could do, and, yes - that which she _must_ do.

"Rui," Wes said, with a voice like barren winter.

"Wes," she answered, her own voice as clear as a bell. She took a deep breath in and imagined all the things she promised she'd say to him, all the warmth that she'd wanted to convey for so, so long.

"Once, a long time ago, you saved me. Today, I'm going to repay the favor. Wes, I'm here to save you."

"There isn't anything worth saving. But you'll tell me I'm wrong..." There was no humor at all in his voice. The black miasma that clung to him was deeper than the smoke blanketing the forest. He was cold and sharp as an obsidian blade, so much more than empty poison. There was malice in him, contempt. "You always were an idiot."

"I'm going to make you eat those words," she said, trying to convince herself the stutter in her own heart wasn't real. "Maybe you can't see it. No, I know you can't, the way you are now. But I'm not wrong to believe in you. And I'm not wrong to think I can save whatever I want to."

"Then do it," he said. "Take that flute you're clutching and play your little heart out."

Summon Celebi with the Time Flute, he dared her. 

"And then we can finally end this," he said. "Me, you, and everything."

* * *

"When will this end?" Ardos asked him in a broken voice, a wheezing, rattling noise, like he was on death's door. His mangled body was limp and boneless, held upright only by the metal cuffs on his wrists affixed to the ceiling.

"It doesn't end," Wes answered. "And it never did, for you as much as me. I could ask you the same question. When was it supposed to end? What stupid goal were you chasing? I know what _you_ wanted. You wanted your dad's attention. You wanted your brother out of the picture."

Wes stepped aside to give parent and child a clear sightline through the glass doors of their cells.

"Now you have it. Shouldn't you be happy?"

Ardos shivered - quaked, like he was freezing. 

"I'm sorry," he said, going insane. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing left to apologize for," Wes said. "Since I've got nothing left for you to hurt. Too bad the same can't be said for you."

* * *

"Wes...I always wanted to ask you why you did it. Why you kept working there, even though you hated it. Why you kept working there, even though it was killing you."

"Because I was weak," he answered.

She looked heartbroken, like she was about to cry. A sentiment he could no longer understand. That he had never understood in the first place. She had always been an incomprehensible existence...and she was exactly how he remembered her. The only thing that had changed was himself; he was the one who now knew exactly what he was here to do. He'd cared about her, once. He couldn't remember why.

"I see," she said. "And the way you are now, doesn't it hurt you?"

"I can't be hurt." Ever again. He stepped toward her. "Stalling for time?"

"Whether I play this flute now or later doesn't really matter, does it?" she asked. "I know...I know that this can only end one of two ways. Either you win, and that's it for all of us, or I find some way to save you."

"Impossible."

"If you think so, then humor me." She put on a brave face, betrayed by the tautness in her muscles and the way she flinched with every step towards her he took. It took only ten until he was standing right in front of her, until she was craning her neck to look him in the eye. "Is it worth it, Wes? Is any of this worth it?"

"What about you?" Wes asked. "Watching your world crumble. Is it worth it to be the last man standing?"

She stared defiantly up at him. "What if I say no? What point would you try to make?'

"That you should have run. Done something worthwhile. Enjoyed yourself." He leered at her. "I hated you. I always hated you. You, and everyone else wearing your dumb expression, too stupid to know what was good for them. Up until the very end, you're a thorn in my side."

"Will you be happy when I'm gone?"

"I hated those words, too. 'Happy' and 'hope' and 'opportunity.'"

The people who had them never knew how lucky they were. The people who'd never known them dashed themselves against the rocks trying to reach them.

Once upon a time, he'd worn himself ragged and raw and empty chasing after them. He'd bled out on the desert sands.

No more.

"I'm sick of it. I'm sick of it. Sick of hopes and dreams, wants and wishes. Sick of people like you who believe in them, sick of the people who can achieve them, sick of the people who can't. I'm going to crush them all, one by one, piece by piece, until there's nothing - nothing - _nothing_ \- left."

Once everything was stained pitch-black, once everything had been emptied out and broken, once everything was hopeless and quiet and still, even the desert sands might finally stop howling.

"Sick of it?" Her voice sounded like it was breaking. "Don't smile when you say something like that. That's so unbelievable - that's so awful - how could you?"

"It's easy once you know the trick." His skarmory fluttered to a stop behind him, its cold, steel wings glinting in the firelight.

"If you don't know how, I'll show you." He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, nearly breaking, so the flute she was holding knocked against her jaw.

"Play," he ordered her, only as loud as he needed to be for her to hear him. "I answered your stupid question."

Finally, she was scared of him. It took her long enough. Her searching, pleading blue eyes found nothing in him to help her.

"...This won't make you happy, Wes," she said.

"Nothing will," he answered her. "Play."

"I want you to be happy, Wes. Please. Stop this, please..."

"There's not enough left. Play."

She was crying. She was pleading, and he didn't even really know what for. Maybe she didn't, either.

"Please, Wes."

"Play."

She sobbed and brought the flute to her lips. She swallowed, she hesitated, and finally, she did as she'd been told. From the instrument came a soft and somber melody, which intermingled with the singing stones of Relic Shrine. Like an echo or memory, the sound of bells began to chime, softly at first, crescendoing, until it was tangible and real, until it carried over the screaming winds and the crackling flames. The shrine began to glow, and the glow began to condense and solidify, twinkling motes of light gathering before them and taking form. 

Celebi, the guardian of the Relic Forest…

It had time only to open its eyes before Wes had pounced, throwing his whole weight forward, crushing it against the Relic Stone. 

"Finally," he said.

Black tendrils began to creep up Celebi's throat.

With his attention all focused on Celebi, it was exactly the opportunity Rui had been waiting for. Holding her breath to dive into the miasma, she lunged forward and clasped the Purification Device around his neck.

He yelled in pain and dropped Celebi to the ground, staggering backwards as the device lit up with a blinding green light. In Rui's eyes, his black aura flared like fire, as the power of the Relic Shrine chased it out of him. Bit by bit, it was being eaten away by purification, channeling Celebi's power. She ran past him and scooped Celebi up, clutching the fairy close to her chest, hoping that it would be over, finally over - 

But something was wrong. 

Wes had doubled over, his hands clutching at the metal ring around his neck, straining against it. His black aura flared and fizzled around him, like an angry sunspot, like the fires consuming the forest. The green light began to flicker and fade.

"No..."

Bit by bit, the miasma returned. The green light wavered, then began to dim, then was gone altogether, and everything was dull, and the Relic Stone was only grey rock, and it was cold - so cold. 

Wes looked up at her, his empty, blackened eyes full of nothing at all. The device around his neck gave only a faltering green glow - alive, but not enough. Never enough.

Celebi squeezed its eyes shut and turned away.

Wes heaved a few harsh breaths, then rose up to his full height. The collar crackled and sparked. "Was that all that you had?" 

"Wes," Rui said, taking a step back, then another, as the Grand Master began to advance on her. "Wes, you're bleeding."

He'd pulled hard enough that black blood was trickling down his neck. Wherever it fell, up grew a small black crystal, which was then ground underfoot - to ashes, to dust.

"I could walk even if I had no blood left. What about you?"

"Wes…" Tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm trying to save you, you idiot! Why won't you let me? Why are you even trying to fight me? I know how kind you really are. I know you never wanted to hurt anyone. Why can't you stop this? Why won't you listen to me?"

"Who ever said I wanted saving?" he snarled at her. "Who asked you to try? Why didn't _you_ run when I gave you the chance?"

She had no answer for him. Of course not; everyone was a fool, an idiot, and he alone could see them for how ugly they really were.

He reached out toward her. "Give Celebi to me, Rui. I'll finish what I started."

She only clutched it tighter, backing away. "No. I won't let you do this, Wes. I won't let you hurt anyone anymore."

He narrowed his eyes. "Fine by me. You chose the hill you're dying on." 

He clicked his tongue and his skarmory screeched, opening its sharpened wings. With one powerful downward flap, it propelled itself toward her, whistling through the air, its cruel beak aiming for her throat.

A black-and-yellow blur rushed out from the underbrush.

It snapped shut mere inches away from her skin with the sharp sound of metal scraping metal, as the blur caught the bird by the neck and threw it to the ground. As the skarmory struggled back to its feet to meet its attackers, a bright burst of pink psychic energy blasted into the side of the skarmory's head, knocking it back to the stone, sending sparks flying as its metal feathers scrabbled against the rock. 

An umbreon and espeon, with hackles raised, now stood on the battlefield between Wes and Rui. With bright, sharp eyes, they glared up at their master, who stared back down at them with an empty expression.

"No one runs when I give them the chance,” he said, softly. “They all show up just to get in my way, over and over again…"

Espeon let out a snarl, baring its teeth and shaking its head. Umbreon, meanwhile, turned to Rui, grabbing her by the cuff of her sleeve and pulling her upright. 

Reflected in its eyes, Rui saw her own shameful appearance - tears and snot running down her face, eyes wide with fright and worry. With one hand, she wiped herself clean. Then she slapped her cheeks, the sting of the action bringing her back to reality.

What had she been doing? What stood across from her wasn't some monster; it was that strange, lost boy all those years ago who'd bought her sweets while she was losing her mind in prison. It was someone she'd spent this whole time wanting to be friends with. It was who she'd stayed behind to save.

She squeezed Celebi close, then turned to say what it was she had always meant to say to him.

"I didn't run because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't repay my debt.” She stood up straight, and proud, and foolish, refusing to be afraid any longer. "Because I want to believe - I _do_ believe - that people can be good to each other, can change, can learn, can grow, and can be happy. There are horrible, evil, awful things in this world. I'm sure you've seen enough to last you a lifetime. But there are wonderful, beautiful things, too. Did you know, Wes, that I really thought you saved my life when you started talking to me, that day we first met when I was in Cipher's holding cell?"

"Do you know how many lives I've trampled over?" he sneered. "What it would mean to forgive me?"

"I'm not wrong!" she shouted at him, her clear voice cutting through the sound of the roaring wind. "It isn't wrong for me to believe in people, to care about people, and to care about you. It isn't wrong for me to want good things for you. It isn't wrong to wish, to hope, to dream, to want, and to help each other."

She took a deep breath in and out, then stared him in the eye. "I'm going to stop you, Wes. I won't let you hurt anyone else - not because I think you're evil, not because I think you're wrong, but because I don't want you to hurt yourself any longer."

A small, cool hand reached up and touched her cheek. Startled, Rui looked down towards Celebi, and found that the fairy was smiling at her. Slowly, its delicate, glass-like wings fluttering, it rose out of her arms, hovering in the air, a bright beacon of light amidst the smoke and ash.

It clasped its hands together and bowed its head, the glow growing brighter. Wes - the shadow - winced and covered his eyes. The light that emanated from Celebi’s body was gentle and warm, and it beat back the darkness, Wes stumbling backwards, _away._

Something began to circulate through her body - cool and soothing against the raging heat of the fire or the numbing chill of the shadows. Unconsciously, Rui clasped her hands together, too, as Celebi floated back down to her and placed its hands on hers.

It passed onto her something ancient, sorrowful, and kind. It passed onto her as much as it was able, the green around its body fading and withering to a dull brown, its blue eyes growing dim, its wings slowing, faltering. Soon enough Rui was kneeling, Celebi's small weight supported by her hands. It trembled against her, quivered, but even so, stared resolutely into her eyes. She was being entrusted with the burden of its regrets. At last it fell limp, breathing shallowly and unevenly, against her.

Rui felt tears well up behind her eyes, but she blinked them back. No crying, not here, not now; not when she'd finally been given the power to _do_ something. She shrugged off her jacket and folded it, carefully laying Celebi down on it behind her. Then she stood, letting the wind blow through her hair, letting the singing of the shrine carry her heart forward.

"You two," she said, addressing umbreon and espeon. "I'm not very good at battling, but I want to save Wes. That's why you came back, too, right?"

They didn't answer her, but their sharp gazes - so much like Wes's own - seemed to understand what she was saying. With a haughty toss of its head, umbreon stepped forward; with a grand sweep of its tail, espeon followed.

The skarmory had staggered back to its feet, and behind its master flapped a shadow togetic and swellow, awaiting orders with empty eyes. 

"Crush them," he said.

Rui stood resolute. "Just try."

* * *

We will stand with you, even if it means standing against you. Because you, our kindhearted, gentle, and foolish little brother, are dear to us.

Do you think this shadow wearing your skin can win against the combinations we spent hours and hours, days and days, perfecting? Of course not. Because we, together, were strong. And this empty husk can only dream of strength, can only mirror your movements without understanding them.

They killed you, didn't they? That is why you stand before us like the living dead. Because we were taken by surprise, and unable to protect you, you were left vulnerable. All the worse because you were always so, so weak. We failed to protect you, but we will not fail to save you.

Our littlest, softest, gentlest brother, come back to us. Come home.

* * *

The shadow pokémon lay scattered and unconscious across the shrine. Umbreon and espeon, their bodies bloody and ragged, were still standing - proud, as if untouched by their wounds; their ears thrown back and tails high in the air.

And Wes, standing in front of her, with empty eyes, could not move. He was still, like a machine that had lost its input, a puppet without its strings. Maybe he was resigned to whatever fate she threw at him. Maybe he was simply waiting for it, for whatever punishment he’d incurred. At the end of his malice and hatred and grief, there was only a weeping emptiness.

He looked lost. He’d always looked lost. 

She took a deep breath in and threw herself forward, encircling his still, rigid body with her arms.

* * *

In the harsh light of a dim hospital room tucked deep below the earth, a newborn was sleeping in his mother's arms, unaware of the somber and solemn expressions of the adults gathered around him. There was his mother on the hospital bed, the doctor, and a nurse, who was busy clearing all the equipment away. 

"...And his father?" the mother asked. Her voice was reedy, worn, soft...but in its echoes was a once-beautiful vivacity. The doctor looked uncomfortable as he turned away.

"No man of his description ever came," he said. "If you want - "

"No," she said, quickly, then softer, "no. I understand. I've been...abandoned, haven't I?"

The doctor couldn't answer her. His silence, however, was answer enough. It was a common story down here in the Dark. There was nothing they could do.

The woman sighed, long and shuddering, clutching the baby closer. "Wes," she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"His name. My son. Wes." She closed her eyes. "In my mother tongue, it means 'free.'"

She smiled, and it was beautiful - she really had been beautiful, once, before even that superficial beauty had been drained away. She leaned down, her nose touching Wes's own. It was soft and tender in a way so rarely seen in the harsh and unforgiving desert...a sentiment that could not last, a kindness that would wither away someday. But even so...fleeting and intangible, incorporeal and untenable, it had been real. It had been real.

"I pray that you will be free, someday," she said to him. "Wes, my Wes. Forgive me for bringing you into this world. Forgive me for all the ways I will fail you. I love you. I'm sorry. I love you."

* * *

The sandstorm howled and clawed at Rui's skin, but still she held on. The shadows all screamed and tore at her flesh, but still she held on. 

Umbreon and espeon, so untouchable up until now, came to support her weight, curling about her legs, looking up at her with bright, piercing, intelligent eyes.

* * *

"Hey," Wes said, gripping his eevees' paws with his two small, bony hands. "Do you two have family waiting for you topside?"

They quirked their heads as they looked at him, then shuffled closer to him, licking his face.

He smiled a little, burying his hands in their coarse brown fur. "Me neither," he said. "We got that in common, huh?"

His voice grew soft, like his mother's would, sometimes. He never really understood why she used to tell stories the way she did until he suddenly had someone to tell stories to, and then it made sense. Stories were a snapshot. A frozen, better time. He could ignore the bits that hurt when he told a story. It was...separate. And in a story, he could change the ending. It was only when she had stopped being able to do so that his mother had fallen into despair.

"Once upon a time," he said, "I used to have a family. And she died happy, once I was gone. But now there's you two. And I promised you two I'd show you the whole sky - and I will. I will. We're close to getting a ticket out. Only another six months, maybe. And then we'll be free - that's what my name means, you know? 'Free.'"

* * *

"I don't want to remember this. These stupid, useless things."

"You have to."

"But they hurt. They hurt."

"Yes. I'm sorry. But they hurt because they mattered. Because they were important."

"I feel like I'm dying."

"That's how you know you've been alive."

* * *

Umbreon and espeon had similar tastes to each other...and similar tastes to Wes. This was a good thing, because single portions were always too small, and triple portions too big, but double portions split between the three of them were always just right.

He felt at peace when he watched them eat - always had. Even at Snagem, they'd sometimes go days with only a single meal between them, the result of petty bullying. When he saw them scarf down their portion, it was reassuring, far moreso than the food on his own plate. If the two of them were alright, then he'd be alright.

The only thing they couldn't agree on was sweets. Umbreon preferred alfajores; espeon liked sopaipillas. Wes abstained from voting. 

"You two sure are gluttons," he said, his mouth twitching up in spite of himself as he watched them destroy a box of pastries between each other. They took a moment to growl at him before returning to their hunt, sharp claws making quick work of the flimsy cardboard packaging.

It was moments like this, or when they lied down together out in the open desert under a canopy of twinkling stars, far from any city lights, or when they took shelter in an unexplored, forgotten cavern in the Under lit only by the soft glow of umbreon's rings, or when they stumbled across an untouched oasis hidden between the dunes, lapping at the pristine water bubbling up from a desert spring, that he felt like he might know what "contentedness" was.

If he could only roam the desert, unfettered, wind in his hair and pokémon by his side, perhaps that would be all he'd ever need. With the stars to guide them, the sun to warm them, and crackling fires to stave off the nighttime chill...

* * *

No more collars, no more chains.

No more killing himself just trying to live. No more.

Wasn't he sick of it? Yes, he was sick of it. Didn't he hate it? Yes, he _hated_ it! And he was fed up having to pretend he didn't. No more, no more! No more despair, no more resentment, no more submission. No more being pushed around, no more clawing his insides out, no more having his bones picked over, stabbing himself in the guts, breaking his legs on cage bars, no more!

The curses inside of him howled - don't leave us, don't leave us. Don't forget, don't forgive, don't let go. It was they who did this to you, it was the world that had forsaken you, it was the sun and moon and sea and sky that had sat idly by and watched you burn. It hurts! It has always hurt, and it will always hurt. You will never be free as long as you live. So give up. Give up, and we will numb you, so that it will not hurt any longer.

Ah, and it hurt! It hurt like glass caught under his skin, tearing him open from the inside out. It hurt like desert sands scouring his body, eating him down to the quick of his bones. It hurt like he was dying, dying. 

But there were times where it hadn't, where it'd hurt less, where he could forget that it ever had.

Was it a sin to believe in that?

* * *

Slowly, Wes reached up for the collar around his neck. The metal beneath his fingers dented, then folded, crumpled, until finally the lock was broken and he could pry it off. His arms went slack and it fell to the stone tile, clattering away. His knees followed shortly after.

Though Rui tried to hold on, she was unable to stop his whole body from collapsing, a heap of violet cloth and long, brown-gold hair. 

And then it began to rain.

Not a poisoned, freezing rain - _rain_ rain, cool and soft and cleansing, first one drop, then two, then five, ten, fifty, a hundred - until suddenly it was a torrent, a downpour, extinguishing the raging fire, washing away the choking ash.

It rained, and rained, and rained, like Orre itself was crying. And in the rain, to shelter their brother's fallen body, umbreon and espeon had crawled atop it.

Behind her, Celebi stirred. It stared upward into the gentle rain, and then at Rui as she approached and lifted it in her arms. Then, down at Wes and his pokémon, all huddled around him, umbreon, espeon, skarmory, togetic, and swellow, their black auras washing away in the cleansing rain...like ink, like a bad dream. 

Celebi smiled and raised a small, cool hand, pressing it against Rui's cheek. It smiled. Then, with a shimmering green glow, it faded from her arms, its meager weight disappearing along with it. Back to its own time, perhaps, or simply finally laid to rest.

All tears cried in this rain could be forgiven. 

Because those who were free in Orre were freer than anyone, anywhere else.

* * *

Around a table in the elder's house gathered several stiff, uncertain faces. The Cipher admins, who had won the battle outside the Shrine, and Rui, who had won against their Grand Master, sat on opposite sides, quietly staring each other down, unsure of how to proceed.

For the three days that Wes had been unconscious, his body guarded by his umbreon and espeon, who had not left his side as he slept, even as the rain came pouring down, rolling across the desert.

Above their heads, Ho-Oh and Lugia circled, their feathers still dyed a more stubborn black than could be fixed with only the Relic Shrine. They answered to no one, their looming shadows on the ground a reminder, stark and ugly, that Orre was still in dire straits, and there was still much to be done on either side.

However, Cipher and the resistance had been in a deadlock. Cipher was unwilling to let go of its hold over the region, arguing that, if nothing else, the power vacuum opened up would plunge the region into another dark age of riots and instability. The resistance, meanwhile, refused to let Cipher advance any further. They'd bicker long into the night, break to go sleep, then wake up and do it again. That was where they were, even now, Eagun and Venus viciously trading verbal blows, neither of them willing to budge an inch.

But it was as the argument was dragging into the afternoon, when the rainclouds over Agate finally broke to allow the sunlight to slant through the windows, and something flashed gold in their peripheral vision, that they realized someone was sitting at the table who had not been there earlier in the morning.

One by one, their heads turned. Those who were standing slowly lowered themselves into their seats, silent before the gaze of Cipher's Grand Master.

With the quiet and unobtrusive nature of a thief, how long had he been sitting there, unnoticed? Once he had commanded the attention of the room, he sat upright, his hair flashing gold as he moved, as if individual strands were spun with it.

"My name is Wes," he said, coolly, in an even, emotionless tone. "Cipher's Grand Master. I'm going to give the deserters one chance, right now, to rejoin without punishment."

Lovrina practically jumped out of her chair. "Oh! Grand Master, sir! I'd like my position as head of R&D back, please."

Ein quickly rose to meet her. "Grand Master, I hardly believe a _deserter_ can be trusted with such a position. You know how I have proven my loyalty. I implore you to make the right decision."

"You two can fight it out on your own time," Wes said, dismissively. "Let me know what you decide."

Ein gave an irritated sigh. "Yes, Grand Master."

Wes then cast a glance in Eldes's direction, and he stiffened, clearing his throat. With his back straight and expression steeled, he looked the part of a CEO's son - it didn’t terribly suit him, but it also didn’t _not_.

"My family?"

"Yours. Do whatever you want with them."

"And severance pay? Reimbursement?"

"No idea." Wes shrugged. "You'll be my financial advisor; figure it out."

In other words, Eldes was free to take as much as he felt he was owed. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Yes, Grand Master."

That left only Nascour. He lowered his head.

"I would like to break from the company," he said, quietly, "and take my father with me."

"Done," Wes said. "We'll talk details later."

"...Thank you."

In just a couple minutes, Wes had regained full control of Cipher. It was so sudden that Eagun and Secc were left floundering, unable to get a word in edgewise as Wes turned to the admins that had remained loyal, barking out commands like he'd been born Grand Master.

"Dakim."

"Y - yes, Grand Master."

"Improve relations with Mt. Battle. Work with Eldes for your budget. I want their support, so do whatever it takes to earn it." He paused. “And let me know if there’s anything they need me to do.”

Dakim closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Yes, Grand Master."

"We should start by fixing our own mess…" Wes sighed. "R&D, I want all resources we had on shadowfication moved to purification."

Ein and Lovrina's response was unanimous. "Yes, Grand Master!"

"Miror," Wes said. "You've been bugging HR for a vacation for years. Go ahead and take it. I think Pyrite got the message, and if they didn't, I'll go deliver it myself while you're gone."

Miror grinned wide, clasping his hands. "Yes, Grand Master," he said. "Oh, I can already tell I'm going to _love_ your administration."

Wes snorted and moved on. "Venus."

"Yes, sir?"

"...Keep up the good work."

She smiled behind her veil. "Yes, Grand Master. In fact, I have some ideas I'd like to whisper in your ear once this meeting is over, if you'll allow it…"

"In public. With witnesses. Topside."

She smiled even wider. "Of course, Grand Master."

"Snattle, proceed with the election as planned. Gorigan, your division will be working with R&D for the time being. Give them whatever they need."

"Yes, Grand Master," they both replied. 

"Evice, you're going wherever Nascour wants you."

The poisoned old man's expression did not change. "Yes, Grand Master. What of my work?"

"Hand it to Eldes before you leave," Wes said.

Eldes did not seem happy about his incoming workload.

With that, however, all Cipher affairs were settled. Next on Wes's list seemed to be Gonzap and Snagem. Gonzap grinned as Wes's golden eyes lighted upon him, puffing out his chest.

"Got something to say to me, boy?"

"That I'll tear you limb from limb someday," Wes said, evenly. "But Orre's economy will collapse without our black market…"

He sighed. "Whatever I tell you to do, you'll do the opposite, just to be a pain in the ass. So do whatever you want. Your days are numbered, that's all."

Gonzap threw back his head and laughed. "You know me so well. That's my boy! Good to see you’ve got your spirit back. It looks like I'm no longer needed here. I'll see myself out."

"Hope the door hits you," Wes mumbled, as Gonzap fled before anyone could stop him.

That left Eagun and the Kid's Grid, who were now surrounded on all sides by a unified Cipher front. Wes leaned back in his seat, casual in the way one could only be when victory was completely assured.

"Let's get down to business," Wes said, tapping the table with a scarred finger. "I want Agate's surrender. You'll want to give it to me. First of all, because I can take it by force, and second, because we can't fix Orre if Agate remains independent."

Eagun stared at him, uncomprehending, but Secc immediately leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed and gaze intense.

“What does ‘fixing’ Orre mean to you?”

Wes shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. “Schools, water, trains...I don’t know. That’s what I’d have people like you to figure out for me.” His gaze turned sharp, accusatory. “Or are you telling me you started fighting us without a plan for what you’d do after?”

Secc snorted. "Oh, we have a plan, alright. What if we offered you a partnership instead? We have a communication grid. Talent. And our people won't be happy with Cipher's name hovering over us."

"No can do," Wes said. "If this region is gonna get anywhere, it needs to be unified. The other countries are all hungry for our mines. Any split in our politics and they'll make themselves a nest."

"Then, a merger in name only?"

"Admin positions," Wes counter-offered. "One for the open spot next to Eldes. One for the head of Agate."

"Me?" Eagun asked, completely lost.

Secc considered the offer. "The rest of the Kid's Grid?"

"Your division, your rules," Wes said. "Make 'em peons or don't. You'll be handling the paperwork either way."

Secc glanced at Eagun, then back at Wes. "And the Agate admin?"

"Rui," Wes said, simply. 

"Huh?" Rui asked, blinking. The contents of the past few minutes of conversation had flown completely over her head. "What?"

Secc nodded, then stuck his hand out over the table.

"Deal," he said. Wes took it and gave it a firm shake. But as Secc tried to let go, he found that Wes was holding him there, glaring at him from across the table.

"Don't disappoint," Wes said, cold as ice, making everyone at the table freeze. He finally let go after that, Secc very slowly lowering himself back into his seat.

And with that...somehow, it felt as though every account was settled. There were, of course, details to be ironed out, the nitty-gritty to be resolved...indeed, already Ein and Gorigan had begun to consult each other, while Nascour and Dakim took Eldes aside. Secc was explaining to a flustered Eagun what sort of deal had been brokered, exactly, leaving Wes to stand up from where he'd been sitting, dusting off his violet robes.

"Rui," he said. She turned to face him, cocking her head. 

"Yes?"

"I'm fucking starving. I also promised a long time ago I'd show you where I got umbreon and espeon's sweets. Are you coming?"

She blinked, then broke out into a wide grin. "I can't believe you remembered!" she said, giddily. "Yes! Take me with you!"

"Hey!" Lovrina said, imperiously. "Trying to suck up to the boss even though you're new - not on my watch! I'm coming too."

"Sure," Wes said, in a dead tone.

Venus giggled. "It must be nice to be so free. Alas, because I am sorely despised by my employer, it seems as though poor Venus returns to the hole in the ground she calls home…"

"Stop whining and come," Wes grumbled, umbreon and espeon chittering excitedly as they bounced around his legs (and snarling and snapping at anyone trying to get too close). Venus smiled and clapped her hands, getting up to follow.

"Will you be joining us, Miror dear?"

"Fuhoho! Much as I would love to, my lovely coworker, I prefer my entrails to be inside of me. Please do enjoy your time with our employer and his ravenous beasts and his pokémon, Lady Venus."

Lovrina stuck her tongue out at him and Rui laughed. 

"Oh, wait," Rui said, suddenly, "does this mean I'm a Cipher admin now?"

"What, did you just figure that out?" Lovrina asked, incredulous. "Ugh...I hope the other new hire is smarter than you are."

This time Rui stuck her tongue out. "I take back what I said about not being able to save Wes without you. Actually, it was all thanks to me!"

"Hey!"

Wes looked like his mind was on another planet, ignoring his admins' bickering, one hand idly petting his umbreon's head as he led the way out of Agate. He stopped dead in his tracks once he rounded the corner, however, the arguing Rui and Lovrina behind him practically tripping over his body.

"...Huh," he said, quietly. "The flowers are blooming."

Before them stretched the desert sands...covered in rainbow blossoms, blanketed by thousands upon thousands of flowers in every shape, color, and size. It looked like a painting, or like someone had spilled paint across the desert hills...like a miracle. An event that happened only once a decade.

"Oh my, my," Venus said, bringing a hand to her mouth. "How long it's been since I've seen this sight…"

"I didn't know the desert could do _this,"_ Lovrina said, eyes wide. "Is this really the same wasteland we rode across to get here just a few days ago?"

"It's beautiful," Rui said, hands clasped in front of her chest. "It's really, really beautiful…"

Wes just let himself breathe for a moment, taking in the sight and scent of it, the wind in his hair, the sun warming his skin.

He really did love this desert, he thought. The blue sky, the endless sand, and the curses and blessings hidden beneath. 

Someplace deep inside of him still itched with the clawing emptiness, always threatening to burst forth. It was a part of him - had always been a part of him, and likely always would. He was sure that, in some small way, he'd always be spitting curses. There was always a sandstorm raging somewhere, and even now, there must lay barren patches in the desert where flowers couldn't grow and the sun couldn't reach.

But that was fine, because sometimes the flowers _did_ bloom.

And sometime next decade, they would bloom again. And people in the desert would always be carving out their livings, would always be looking for a better tomorrow - for hope, and happiness, and wanting, and wishes.

And umbreon and espeon were at his side. No matter how heavy his heart was, at least he would never need to hold it alone.

"Oh, yeah," Wes said, dully. "My mom's dead."

What he meant was he'd never bought her funeral rites before, and seeing the flowers in bloom had suddenly reminded him. He didn't feel the need to say that part aloud, however, even as everyone clammed up at his statement. Rui and Lovrina, the two outlanders, gave him bizarre looks, but Venus just laughed, patting Wes on the shoulder. 

"Well, better late than never," she said, smiling. "Either she will understand...or it serves her right, isn't that so, Grand Master?"

"Just about," Wes answered. Maybe it was both. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her, and maybe he never would be. He just knew that, for himself, for his own closure, he thought perhaps he should make a stop by the coastal city, and finally lay her wailing spirit to rest.

Still…no matter how many tears it took to water the desert sands, no matter how many ghosts the rainbow colors represented...the flower blooms really were beautiful.


	10. Epilogue: Roost.

On the dusty coastline of the crime-ridden region of Orre was a somber, sober seaside village built with grey stone houses and smooth stone paths. This close to the water, the sand turned to dirt and brackish mud, and scrubby bushes and skinny trees dotted the landscape here and there. Even though they were scarce, wingull could be seen wheeling along the cool ocean air, calling to each other over the steady crashing of the waves against the rocky shore. In the mornings and evenings the fog would roll in so thick it made the rest of the world disappear. This very fog was harvested for drinking water, big rope nets stretching all along the shore, collecting into stone pots.

Appoak, the town of flowers and the dead. It was a quiet place. Those who lived here did so peacefully, and those who visited only ever had one reason for doing so. In the sunlight glinted dark brown hair flashing silver and gold.

In the town's square was a large stone building decorated with mosaics in shards of crystal depicting the great birds of sun and sky, the desert, the rain, and the flower blooms that only happened once a decade. Inside the building were waiting rooms and mourning rooms, and people with that glinting hair dressed head to toe in somber robes cinched at the waist with braided cloth belts. 

In a lot of ways, they looked like him. It was hard not to stare at the light catching in their hair the way it did in his, which was tucked into his own hood. At golden eyes, though only glimpses of them, because Wes turned away as soon as they made eye contact with him.

And in a lot of ways, they didn't resemble him at all. They were all clad in traditional clothing woven in complex designs. He felt odd and out-of-place in leathers bought from the Under and a cloak imported from overseas. They walked with dignity and purpose. He skulked, with light step, uncomfortable with the sound his shoes made against the stone tile. He did not belong here, he felt. He was not one of them.  


In the stone building, it was finally his turn at the counter. His hands and the hands of the man on the opposite side had the same color and shape, but Wes’s were covered in callouses and scars, proof of his life in the underworld and not in the sun. 

"What service can we provide you today, sir?" the Appoacian asked.

"Flower rites," Wes said. "No body. Can you do 'em without?"

"Yes, we can," the man told him. "May we ask for the name of the deceased?"

"Flor," Wes said.

When the man across the counter didn't say anything for a long time, Wes looked up. In the other man's eyes was surprise, and then - 

"You look just like her," he breathed. He reached for Wes's hood - Wes resisted the urge to stop him. The man pulled it down, and Wes's grim-reaper hair fell around his shoulders. In the light that streamed in through the windows and cracks in the masonry, it glittered golden, like the sun itself.

"Flor," the man said, in a small, quiet voice that suddenly sounded so much like hers, "that was my sister. Are you her child?"

Wes stared into eyes the same color as his own.

"...Yes," he answered. 

The man grabbed his scarred hand and squeezed. His desperate, breathless voice was breaking. "What's your name?"

"Wes," he answered.

"Wes," the man repeated. "Wes...my sister's child. My nephew. My nephew!"

He shouted it, and it echoed off the stone walls, and everyone in the building turned to watch with curious gazes. Wes was at a loss as to what to do, even as the man pressed his forehead against Wes's knuckles. Dully, he thought, the man's grip was warm.

Among the Appoacians he could hear hushed whispers, bird-like chatter.

"Flor's child?"

" - really does resemble her - "

"Twenty years? Give or take?"

"She ended up dying out there, after all..."

The man holding onto his hands squeezed, as he looked up at his nephew with misty eyes.

"Wes," he said, quietly. "You've finally come home." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
